A Marriage of Silk and Steel
by Draic Kin of the Balance
Summary: AU. As the plague sweeps across France, the blood of countries is shed and the alliance between France and Scotland unravels. In the midst of it all is Mary, Queen of Scots, as political and personal vendettas threaten to destroy everything.
1. Chapter One: The Plague

**A Marriage of Silk and Steel**

**By Draic Kin of the Balance**

* * *

"_There's a humming in the restless summer air_

_And we're slipping off the course that we prepared_

_But in all chaos, there is calculation_

_Dropping glasses just to hear them break_

_You've been drinking like the world was gonna end (It didn't)_

_Took a shiner from the fist of your best friend (Go figure)_

_It's clear that someone's gotta go_

_We mean it, but I promise we're not mean_

_And the cry goes out _

_They lose their minds for us_

_And how it plays out _

_And now we're in the ring_

_And we're coming for blood_

_Oh oh, you could try and take us_

_Oh oh, but we're the gladiators_

_Oh oh, everyone a rager_

_Oh oh, but secretly, they're saviors_

_Glory and gore go hand in hand_

_That's why we're making headlines_

_Oh oh, you could try and take us_

_Oh oh, but victory's contagious_

_Delicate in every way but one (The swordplay)_

_God knows we like archaic kinds of fun (The old ways)_

_Chance is the only game I play with, baby_

_We let our battles choose us." ~_Lorde, _Glory and Gore_

* * *

It was done. The gates were closed, and Mary couldn't rid herself of the pit in her stomach nor the ache in her heart. _Godspeed to you, my dearest Francis, and to Lola, as you bring my husband's child into the world. _A single tear escaped her eye. Her heart was heavy with regret and sadness and fear. Regret for lying to Francis about Lola's pregnancy. Sadness that Francis may now be lost to her, because of her lies. Fear for his life, and Lola's and their child. Fear for France and the lives of its people. She turned away from the gates, hurrying back into the throne room. Catherine awaited within.

"I couldn't stop him," she said gravely. "He is on his way to Lola even as we speak."

"Mary, if Lola falls ill with the plague and my son returns with her in tow, all of our lives will be at risk," Catherine hissed. She shook her head. "We can't open the gates up to anyone, not even the king. The danger is too great."

"Francis is your _son_, Catherine," Mary said angrily, "and my husband, and the _king of France._ He is aware of the plague and the threat it poses. Nothing I could say would dissuade him." _I will not leave him to the black fingers of the plague. _

"There is nothing that can be done, but only hope that Francis makes it back to us safe. With or without Lola and her child. I'm sorry, Mary, but I can't think of only my son. Just as you cannot think only of your husband. We are queens, and sometimes the worst decision is the right one." Mary knew she was thinking of Henry's descent into madness, and what had transpired. Her mind, too, couldn't help but wander towards the fresh memories. She prayed that she would never have to put Francis through that again, and she didn't regret strategizing with Catherine to end Henry's life. Francis had said it himself. _You would do it again. _And she would within a heartbeat, if it meant saving France from going into a war that could not be won, and Scotland from the collateral damage, or worse, from that war. It was over, now. Henry was dead. He'd died from his injuries at his own jousting tournament after being pierced through the eye by his challenger. Remaining splinters from the staff had penetrated his brain, and he had died with Francis by his side.

"How long will the castle's gates be closed?" she demanded.

"For as long as need be," the wiser queen said, and she swept out of the room, leaving Mary. Mary watched her as she left, and she knew there was no denying the truth in her words. She was no longer an innocent girl betrothed to the future king of France, but a queen with a country's welfare in her hands and an alliance to preserve. The France-Scotland union was made secure by her marriage to Francis, and the pact was fragile now. Too fragile. Mary would not let the future of Scotland be at risk again, but it was different now. The plague was spreading, and nobody was safe. There was nothing she could do to protect her husband from the pestilence. _Be safe, Francis, wherever you may be. I love you. _

* * *

His heart was hammering in his chest, and his hands were trembling. From adrenaline or from anger at Mary or fear for Lola and his unborn child, Francis couldn't be sure. He was indeed angry with Mary. All these months, she had known Lola was carrying his child, but had hidden the truth from him. Was it because she was ashamed that she still hadn't given him an heir? Or was it because she was envious of Lola? Did she not fully trust him the way he trusted her? He had given himself to her – heart, body, and soul – and she too had given herself completely to him. Their marriage stemmed from political roots, but love had blossomed between them. _Love is irrelevant to people like us, _he had said to Mary once, and yet he had fallen in love with her all the same. He knew those words still rang true, even now. He was a monarch, as was his wife. Their respective countries came first, before anything else. She was Scotland's queen, and he was France's king.

_Have you done the right thing by France? _Doubt whispered. _Have you done the right thing for France by riding into the heart of the plague for the sake of Lola and your child? _Francis tried mentally shaking away his doubts. There was no time for misgivings. He shoved his doubts into the back of his mind and pressed onward, digging his heels into the sides of his horse. Time dragged on, and every second that passed was one more second that would give life to his child. It seemed an eternity before the cottage finally came into sight. Lola's screams pierced the air, and Francis immediately dismounted, running to the cabin. He threw the door open, and Lola was on the bed, writhing in agony.

"Lola!" he called out to her, hurrying to her.

"Francis?" she gasped. "What…what are you doing here? I don't – " She cut herself off with another scream, and somehow, her hand found his. "Mary told you." It wasn't a question. "You shouldn't have come. _Mary – " _

"_I will not leave you here_. I'm not abandoning you."

"Francis, if I don't survive this but somehow our child does," Lola panted, "I want you and Mary…to take him in, and raise him as if he were your own." Tears of pain were streaming from her eyes. She clenched her teeth, trying not to scream.

"Don't talk like that. You are going to make it through this." An image of Lola lying bloody and dead before him flashed into his mind, and he couldn't help but remember his father as he lie on his deathbed. _I killed my father. Will your blood be on my hands as well? _The events of the past two days had intertwined death and life in a powerful song. The death of his father, the sudden outbreak of the plague, and now the birth of his child. It was not going to end, he knew. The plague would spread across France, taking the lives of millions.

Lola howled in agony, half-sobbing. "HE'S COMING!" she cried. "FRANCIS, PLEASE!" There was no helping her, Francis knew. The nearest village was not near at all, and by the time a midwife would arrive, the baby would be born already, or Lola would be dead. Lola's life was in God's hands. It couldn't be God's will to let her die on the birthing bed. It had been God's bidding to end his father's reign, and he had been the one to end it. He had killed his father; was the same God who had willed him to commit patricide willing to take Lola in childbirth after she had lost her husband?

_Please, let Lola live. Let our child live. _


	2. Chapter Two: Love, Birth, Death

_It's here. The plague. _Sebastian stole a glance towards Kenna as she packed her belongings. He knew she wanted to build a life with him away from court, and he wanted to give her that, but they could not stay in France. The plague was spreading throughout the country like wildfire, just as the Darkness had predicted, and the castle's gates had been closed to all. Nobody would enter the castle, nobody would leave.

"I'm sorry for making plans for our departure on such short notice," he said. "I want to see you safe; the castle isn't impenetrable from the epidemic, and we both know that." Kenna met his eyes, her face solemn. "Francis left the castle hours ago; I don't know why, but I'm worried about him, Kenna. What madness would possess him to leave in such dark times as these?"

"I don't know, Bash," his wife answered softly, "but he will return. You must believe in that." Bash's grief for his father was fresh, and the mere thought of his brother riding into the center of the plague struck a great fear in his heart. "When are we going to leave this godforsaken castle?"

"As soon as we can. It's too dangerous to leave now. We may not be able to leave for days, or even months. My little brother is out there, and I don't know when or if he is coming back." Bash shook his head. So much had happened within a matter of months. His father had gone mad. He had been forced to marry Kenna. Now, his father was dead and Francis was king in his stead. No good had come out of any of it, but Kenna. Their love was a miracle, he knew. _She _was a miracle, and he didn't plan on losing her. Not if he could help it.

"I hate waiting here, doing nothing, while Francis goes out and does something absolutely _reckless_." He drew his wife into his arms, crushing their lips together. Kenna knotted her hands in his hair, returning the kiss with everything she had in her. "I'm going after him," he told her breathlessly.

"Bash, _no. No_!" she exclaimed, recoiling from their embrace. "_Damn you_ fool! Why do you have to go on these suicide missions? First the Darkness, and now –"

"Kenna, _he's my brother_. I need to go. I will come back to you, I promise you." Bash kissed her one last time before making his way to the stables. He knew where to go. Gossip travelled through court like no other, and while the reasons for Francis' abrupt departure were much speculated, only one thing remained consistent in all the tales: He was making for the nearest hamlet. Which cottage, none could say for certain. _I may have to bribe Francis' whereabouts from one of the villagers, _he realized. _I have enough money on me that should suffice. _As he mounted his horse, a cold feeling of apprehension settled over him. He spurred on his steed, and made for the gates. They were sealed shut.

"Nobody is to leave the castle," the gatekeeper intoned. "What business is so urgent that requires your presence?"

_He isn't going to let me leave without good cause. _"Queen Mary needs me to help the king. And me alone," Bash lied. The gatekeeper had to oblige; Mary was Francis' queen consort. While she was more powerful in Scotland, she shared her husband's power here in France. To defy her was to defy the king himself. "Let me through the gates. I know of the threat that the plague poses, but I'm acting on Queen Mary's orders."

The warden eyed him suspiciously, but raised the gates nonetheless. Bash urged his horse onward, not daring to look back. _I will come back to you, Kenna, I promise. Little brother, I'm coming. _His mind raced. The village wasn't far, but what if he was too late? What if Francis had already fallen ill and was dying, and this was all for nothing? Bash didn't care why Francis had left; he just had to bring him back to the castle before the epidemic spread to the far ends of the country. _I have just lost a father. I will _not _lose a brother as well. _

* * *

The village finally manifested, and Bash dug his heels into the side of his stallion. The villagers looked towards him in puzzlement. "I am Sebastian de Poitiers," he announced, "the brother of King Francis de Valois –"

"Why is the king's bastard brother here?" an older, drunk man spat. "God is punishing us all for our sins by cursing us with the Black Death. _Fuck you, bastard. Fuck the king_." Bash descended from his horse, his temper flaring. He didn't have time for the insolence from an old drunk.

"I believe Francis may have passed through this village," he went on. "Why, I cannot say – but I will make it worth your while, if you take me to him." He desperately searched the eyes of the villagers, until finally, a woman spoke.

"Francis de Valois did indeed pass through this village, Sebastian," she said. "He is in my cottage, accompanying the mother of his child. Let me take you to him." Bash felt as if he'd been punched in the chest. _The mother of his child? _Had Francis fathered a bastard child? It couldn't be. He was married to Mary, and happily, he believed. Surely he wouldn't hurt Mary and make love with another woman? A woman who wasn't his _wife_? Bash didn't have the time to think more on it as the woman led him to her cottage. When he walked inside, there was no mistaking them. Francis was sitting by Lola's side, clutching her hand as she shrieked in pain, struggling to deliver her – their – child. She was pushing with all her strength, but there was no midwife in sight.

"_Francis_?" Bash exclaimed. His brother whirled around, startled. Francis' eyes were pained with fear and worry.

"What are you doing here, Bash?" Francis demanded. "Did Mary send you?"

"No. I sent myself, little brother. I came to bring you back to the castle; people are talking, and the plague is – "

"_I know about the plague._ I'm not forsaking Lola, and that is final. We'll return to court once the babe is born."

"And then what, Francis?" Bash snapped. "Have you any plan? The plague is here. _France just lost its king. She can't afford to lose another_!" Almost immediately, he regretted his words. It had been only one night since their father's passing, and his loss was overpoweringly felt by all, Francis was now king of France, and he and Mary had yet to produce an heir to the throne. It had been several months since their marriage, and Mary had not yet fallen pregnant.

"You don't think I'm aware of that, Bash?" Francis retorted.

"CAN YOU TWO STOP YOUR DAMN QUARRELLING?" Lola screamed. Her face was streaked with tears, and she was deathly pale. "Bash, I want you to leave us."

"What?"

"Leave. _Now," _she cried. Bash met his brother's eyes, and Francis merely nodded in silent agreement. Reluctantly, Bash obliged and left the room. He couldn't bring himself to return to the castle empty-handed, as Lola and his brother were clearly urging him to do. _The longer we stay here, the more we risk exposure to the plague if we haven't been exposed already. _Lola's screams echoed throughout the house; Bash couldn't help but curse the circumstances. There was no midwife to help Lola birth her child, and he knew that childbirth was a dangerous battle that women frequently fought. Lola's life was in God's hands. He couldn't help but think of Kenna and their life together. Would they have children somewhere down the road? They were not royals, like Francis and Mary. It was not their duty to produce heirs to the throne. They were free to live their lives away from the politics and deceit at French court. _I owe that much to her. A life away from it all, in peace. _

His thoughts were interrupted suddenly, when he heard a baby's wail. He didn't know how much time had passed, nor did he care. Bash reentered the room. The babe was in Lola's arms as she wept tears of joy; her umbilical cord was cut, and the babe looked well. Tears of bliss streaked Francis' face as well. "You did it, Lola," he said. "You're okay, and so is our child."

"Our daughter," Lola told him. "Our Carmen."

"Carmen?" Francis smiled. "I like the sound of that." He hastily wiped away his tears as Lola gently shifted the babe in her arms so he could hold her. Bash watched silently as the scene unfolded before him, a feeling of wrongness enveloping him. He shared in his little brother's joy, but he couldn't help but feel a stab of pity for the child. Carmen was a bastard born out of wedlock; she was not born from Mary, and thus, the claim for the French throne remained insecure. _Unless Francis chooses to legitimize her. _

"Go back to court, Francis," said Lola softly. "Take Carmen with you, and go with your brother. I'll stay here, and come back for her once I feel well enough to travel." She smiled sadly. "Go, please. I'll be okay. Tell Mary I'm sorry, and that I will soon join my beloved Julian."

* * *

"Bash _what_?" Mary exclaimed. "The gates are closed, Catherine. He could not have gotten out unless by the orders of myself, you or Francis. Nobody gave him an order to leave the castle grounds."

"It is just like Sebastian to do something like this," Catherine mused. "When it comes to Francis…he would go into Hell for him. As I would." _As would I, _the young queen thought, _and I have sent my husband into the black heart. _"No one leaves the castle without our given consent, no matter their reasons. We will raise the gates for Francis and Sebastian alone – and Lola. It would do no good for France to lose another king within a night of losing her last king." _Kings are dying like flies. _Should Francis die, the French throne would be open for the taking and Mary would be forced to return to Scotland, and she knew that she could not leave France. Not yet. Scotland needed to see her queen, but the time was not yet ripe. Would it ever be ripe?

Suddenly, a flamboyant fanfare cut the air. Mary's heart raced. _Francis. _She shared a glance with Catherine before hurrying to the gates. Time seemed to slow down; all she could think of was her husband. Francis was okay_. _He had come back to her. The gates rose, and it was then that she saw them. Francis, with a small bundle wrapped in a blanket in his arms, and Bash. Lola was nowhere in sight. Mary ran to her husband, her heart soaring with relief. "Francis!" she exclaimed. "Francis, you're okay. Where's Lola? She should be here."

"Mary, Lola's dead," her husband said gravely. "She died birthing our daughter. Carmen is well; we left the village as soon as we could." Mary reached out towards Francis, but he recoiled from her touch.

"Francis, please – "

"We should get inside, Mary," he said brusquely. "The court will want to see its king and queen together."


	3. Chapter Three: Of Scots and France

"We should get inside, Mary," Francis said cuttingly. "The court will want to see its king and queen together." He could barely bring himself to look his wife in the eye as he held his daughter closer to him. Carmen was serene as she slept. _She's beautiful. _Francis couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness; Lola would never see her daughter grow. _I will have to legitimize her to secure the French throne, should Mary never become with child. _He would not let his daughter be subjected to a life of cold disregard, known only as the king's bastard, the way Bash had grown up.

The walk back into the castle felt almost as if it were a dream. The commoners were staring and whispering at the sight of the babe in his arms. Francis could sense Mary's tension as she walked by his side. Her face was a mask of calm composure; if he didn't know any better, he would have assumed his daughter's presence and the rumors that were no doubt beginning to swirl didn't bother her at all. There was the sound of hurried footsteps advancing; it was Catherine. She ran to her son, but slowed when she saw the babe in his arms. Francis could see it in his mother's eyes as the truth finally fell upon her.

"She's your child." It wasn't a question. The shock was tangible in her voice. "What of Lola, Francis? Why isn't she with you?"

"She died after childbirth, Mother," he answered, "from internal bleeding. I can't say for certain if the plague played a part in her death; Bash and I left the village as quickly as we could." Catherine opened her mouth to say more, but Francis cut her off. "We are quite certain that we managed to evade the plague. We're safe, Mother."

"I'm glad to see you three are well," she said. "Let me take your daughter off your hands for a while. There are other, much more serious matters at hand." Francis obliged, gently placing Carmen in his mother's arms. Catherine glanced towards her son, and then to his wife, before she made her leave. She gestured towards Bash, beckoning him, and he followed her. Over her shoulder, she said to Francis and Mary, "Meet me in my chambers. There is something you need to know. All of you." Without another word, she and Bash departed, leaving only Francis and Mary as the crowd dispersed.

"Francis," began Mary, "we need to talk."

"About my daughter and how you lied to me about her all this time?" he snapped. She flinched at the harshness of his tone, and looked down at the floor before forcing herself to meet his eyes. "I don't want to hear any more lies from you, Mary. Not from _you_, of all people."

"Just give me a chance to explain. Francis, please." Mary's eyes were filled with pain and regret, but Francis was too angry to feel sympathy for her. He knew she was hurting, and she knew that he was hurting, too. For a moment, their last conversation before she'd told him the truth came back to him.

_I can feel myself changing, _Mary had confessed, _and not for the better. Every choice I have made to protect France, and Scotland, even you...for all of them, there is a reckoning. And it's always the woman who must bow to the queen. I feel like I'm killing part of myself, that I'm ignoring my heart until it becomes blind and deaf... I can feel myself growing harder, and I worry that I'm becoming someone you will not love. _

_Don't grow harder, _he had urged her. _Share your burdens. Tell me your darkest truths, and I will tell you mine. So we don't end up married but alone. Two people going down separate paths, justifying our sins as acts of survival. If we can forgive each other, perhaps we can forgive ourselves. _Was it too late for them now? Would he and Mary grow to become just like his mother and father, bitter and unhappy in their marriage? Mary had said it herself. All she had done was for his sake, and that of their had married him not only out of love, but because Scotland needed France. She had blackmailed Catherine into burning the contract she'd signed on her wedding day that would bequeath Scotland to France if she died without issue. She had been willing to die for Scotland when her brother had come to her, and had forced his hand to make her stay in France for her own protection after he'd uncovered an assassination plot against her. She had plotted with Catherine to kill Henry, for the sake of both France and Scotland.

_You tried sparing me from carrying that burden, _he thought solemnly. _I see that now. _She was Scotland's queen; her duty was to her country. She was all Scotland had, and she was now queen of France as well, but he knew very well that her heart was with Scotland. _If it ever comes to a choice between our two countries, _she had said, _I will choose mine. _Could he bring himself to hold that against her? She was only doing what was best for her country, just as he was doing what was best for France. Perhaps their marriage had been doomed from the beginning. Much had gotten between them, and the alliance between their countries was forged into a double-edged sword. One wrong move, and the union would be over. Their marriage was one of the few things holding it together.

"You are my _wife, _Mary," Francis said heatedly. "How could you have lied to me like this?"

"I'm so sorry," she started. "I didn't want to lie –"

"_But you did_!" he shouted. _"You lied to me about my own child! _Mary, when have I _ever _lied to you? I trusted you completely, and I thought you shared that trust in me!"

"Do you honestly believe I _wanted _to lie to you, Francis?" Mary countered. "Lola – she _begged _me not to tell you. I wanted to tell you the moment I found out she was pregnant – but, when I received that letter from her, I knew that it wasn't fair to you to keep lying to you. How could I, when my friend was alone with nobody to support her as she birthed her child? Her lord husband is _dead, _Francis. _Dead._"

"And now she is too," he interjected sharply. Mary hastily dashed away the tears that were running down her face.

"I know there is naught I can say to remedy what I've done," his wife said, her voice wavering, "and I am so, so terribly sorry. For everything."

"I wish that could be enough, Mary," Francis told her. "Come. My mother wants a word with us." Without another look towards her, he turned his back to her and walked away.

* * *

Mary felt her heart break as she watched Francis walk away from her. _I'm losing him, _she realized. _My lies have cost me my husband. _She shook her head, quickly wiping away another stray tear before following him to Catherine's chambers. Now was not the time to mourn the state of her marriage. Mary steeled her heart, and went with her husband. When they arrived, Catherine was locked in discussion with Bash. Kenna was there as well, listening intently.

"Mother, what is it you wanted to speak with us about?" Francis asked. Catherine turned to face her son.

"Good. You're here," she said. "It's about the alliance between our countries." Mary's concern spiked. "Bash, Kenna. Leave us." They quickly did as they were ordered.

"It would seem that France and Scotland have reached an impasse," began Catherine, "and the choices that you and Francis make will determine whether or not we go to war against each other." Mary and Francis exchanged a brief glance. Neither of their countries could afford to go to war against one another.

"What do you mean, Mother?" Francis asked slowly.

"It has come to my attention that you have bought the allegiance of some of my men, Mary," she said icily, "but, you didn't completely buy their loyalty. They still report back to me on a daily basis, on the political situation in Scotland, among other things."

"What situation in Scotland, Catherine? What are you not telling me?"

"Word of the whorehouse slaughter has reached Scotland," Catherine explained, "and now the Scots have been openly rebelling against France. It was in the beginning a group of Scottish nobles, but even the commoners have joined the uprising. Your mother, Marie de Guise, rules in Scotland as regnant in your stead, and she cannot temper the situation for long. I hope you realize what this could mean for both of our countries."

"War," Mary said. "I must return to Scotland and end this insurrection before blood is spilled."

"Mary," began Francis, "are you certain it is safe for you to travel? The last time you were compelled to return to Scotland, your brother was a part of a conspiracy against you." Mary remembered it clearly. He had locked her in the tower in a desperate attempt to protect her, and it had been a month before they were able to reconcile. She looked towards her husband. _Love is irrelevant to people like us. _

"I need to do this, Francis," she said resolutely. "I still value the pact between our countries, and I know you do as well. Let me go, or this alliance will end and Scotland and France will be at war." Her husband gave her the slightest of nods. She knew they couldn't allow to let their wedded disharmony stand in their way when their realms were on the brink of war; they were, above all, rulers and their onuses were to their countries.

"Go to Scotland, Mary," Catherine agreed, "and end this before our countries pay the price."


	4. Chapter Four: Sudden Preparations

"You're quiet today," Castleroy commented. Greer didn't look up from her dinner plate. Her heart was heavy with regrets. "Is everything alright?"

"Everything's fine," she said, forcing a smile. _My one true love has deserted me_. "I was just thinking of the wedding." It was better to tell him half of the truth. Castleroy couldn't know about her trysts with Leith, otherwise it would ruin her. Deserted by two potential suitors. The shame would be unbearable. "I want to get married straightaway." She drew out the parchment that he had given her, unfolded it, and placed it upon the table. This was the right decision. It had to be. Leith was no longer a part of her life now.

"Greer, are you certain of this? You don't need to sign unless you are absolutely ready to wed me." Castleroy looked at her in concern. "I don't want to pressure you into something you're not ready for."

"I'm ready to marry you. I want this marriage." Greer forced herself to look her future husband in the eye. Leith was gone; they would never be together. It was time she accepted that. "I want to be married. Tonight. At sundown."

* * *

"Pack my belongings," Mary ordered a servant. "I'm boarding the next ship to Scotland this evening." Francis walked beside her as she walked to their chambers. She could feel his concerned stare piercing through her. So much was at stake. France and Scotland were at a standstill, and England still posed a serious threat to Scotland. _If the alliance falls, Scotland will be vulnerable on all sides. France gives her more strength, and me a stronger claim to the English throne. I sealed that claim the day Francis and I were married, and when I donned the English coat-of-arms at Henry's tourney. _Elizabeth already considered this a declaration of war over the throne, she knew. Her cousin was ruthless and calculating; she was no doubt plotting her next move against her. She would lose her head for setting her sights on England, and Scotland could not live under her mother's reign. Not anymore. _I must renounce my claim to the English throne, _she realized, _and try to win Elizabeth's support. England has more power than France. Power that I need to save my country, should I go to war with France. _

"I'm coming with you, Mary," said Francis, interrupting her reverie. "Regardless of our personal differences, I don't believe you should go alone to Scotland. It's risky." Mary met his eyes. There was no hint of the cold reception he'd given her upon his return. Any anger he harbored towards her, he'd buried it for the time being, and he was right to do so. He was king now; he had to think with his mind, not his heart.

"You locked me in a tower when I last tried to go home," she reminded him acerbically. "Must you do that every time my country needs me?"

"I understand that you need to go, Mary," her husband explained, "and I'm coming with you." Mary stopped in her tracks and turned to him, startled.

"You're accompanying me to Scotland?" she asked, staggered. "Francis…"

"It'll be better if Scotland sees its queen and king united," Francis went on, taking her hand in his. "They will truly believe that our countries are still at peace and our union strong." Their fingers intertwined with one another, and Mary's body reacted instantly to his touch. How she loved him! How she _still l_oved him! Her flicker of hope died as quickly as it had ignited, and her hand dropped from his. Their countries were no longer at peace, and their marriage was fraying. _And I have yet to give him a son. Even if Carmen is legitimized, the French throne will never pass on to her unless he convinces the pope to alter the line of succession. _

"You shouldn't leave your daughter behind," she said abruptly. "You have a responsibility to her and to France."

"We can bring her with us on the voyage if that is what you want," Francis offered. She furiously shook her head.

"No, Francis," Mary said irately. "I do _not_ want that child with us. She may be your daughter, but she means nothing to me. _Nothing._"

"Undoubtedly, my daughter means something to you," answered her husband indifferently, "otherwise you wouldn't become so angry at the mere mention of her. _Carmen._" His azure eyes bore into hers, and she unflinchingly met his stare. "She will not come with us to Scotland, but do not _ever _presume to speak of my daughter again with such cruelty. Do you understand?"

"I understand," she said frostily.

"Good. We should prepare for the voyage; it's going to be a long journey." Without another word, Francis turned his back to her and stormed off. _If this marriage collapses, so will the peace between our countries. _

* * *

"Can you believe it?" Catherine demanded. "My son has a child, but not by Mary. By Lola, one of her ladies-in-waiting." She laughed bitterly. "Like father, like son. I know Francis well enough to know that he's not going to cast aside his own daughter. He's going to keep her here in court, a constant reminder to Mary that he has been with another woman – but enough of this nonsense. Nostradamus, France and Scotland are on the verge of open war. Have you seen anything that might tell me of my country's welfare?"

"No." Nostradamus shook his head. "I have seen only death. Death in France, death here in the castle – but not Francis'." Catherine felt her heart leap with relief. Francis was still safe. For months, she had been plagued by the knowledge that his marriage to Mary would bring his death, but that was over. He was not her firstborn; Clarissa was, and she was dead. He and Mary would be together for many years and have children of their own. _The only future I want for my son. _

"Death in the castle?" she echoed, horrified.

"Yes. The plague," Nostradamus went on. "The plague touches the castle, and spreads like wildfire. Bodies are piled at the gate to be burned. Many, many bodies. So much death."

"The gates are closed. How could the plague possibly penetrate the castle walls?"

"The plague breached the walls the moment Sebastian returned with Francis, Your Grace. I've seen the first death, and how it infects the castle one by one, day by day, until at least one dies from the disease per day. I'm sorry to bring you such ill tidings."

"Who is the first to die, Nostradamus? _Tell me_."

"Sebastian, Your Grace. Sebastian will be the first to die. It is only a matter of time."


	5. Chapter Five: Scotland

"I still can't believe it myself," Bash said to Kenna. He kissed her fingers as she leaned into his touch. Their naked bodies were slick with sweat, their limbs entwined. His loins ached with the passion of their lovemaking. Kenna was breathless beside him, glowing. "My little brother is king, and he's sired a bastard. You knew Francis was the father of Lola's child this entire time."

His wife propped herself up onto on elbow, stroking his face. "Yes, I did," she admitted. "Can you forgive me for not telling you?"

"It's already forgiven, Kenna," he told her. Kenna beamed at him, before climbing atop of him and straddling him. Bash's eyes found hers, and drifted down her body. He put his hand on her breast as Kenna began to rock her hips against his. She tilted her head back as she cried out in ecstasy. Bash felt her climax, and he swiftly rolled them over, kissing his wife's neck. He nibbled and teased at her earlobe, and made his way down her body as she writhed and moaned in bliss.

"_Bash, oh my god, Bash, yes_!" she screamed.

"How about this?" He tasted her then, before pulling himself back up and kissing her. She cradled his face in her hands, and when they pulled apart, she said breathlessly, "I'm pregnant."

"You're what?"

"I'm pregnant, Bash," she exclaimed. "We're having a child." She was alight with happiness, and Bash's own joy swept over him as they kissed again. _My wife is pregnant! _he thought joyously. The evening would be joyous as well; Greer was marrying Lord Castleroy. The wedding was allegedly supposed to be one of the grandest weddings at court since Francis and Mary's marriage. Bash let his mind drift as he loved Kenna.

* * *

Day followed day, and night followed night. Time was almost nonexistent on the ship, it seemed to Francis. He was disconcerted, though by what, he couldn't say. He and Mary had hardly said a word to one another since their departure. What was there to say? There was too much anger and bitterness between them, and yet, there was so much he longed to tell her. About his father, and so much more than that. He couldn't tell Bash that he had killed their father; Bash would never understand, and he didn't want to burden his brother with that knowledge. _Father killed his brother,_ he thought, _and I killed Father. How utterly poetic. _

A lump formed in his throat, and nausea threatened, and not because he was seasick. He was king of France, and his father's life had been the price. His blood was on his hands, and he had to live with that. It was his burden, and it already weighed him down. It consumed him every day, the guilt and raw grief, the self-loathing. Mary was the only one with whom he could confide in now, but he didn't trust her the way he used to. He couldn't trust her, and her stance was clear. She, too, harbored anger and resentment towards him and even Carmen. _She loathes a child innocent of any crime. _His thoughts were interrupted when Mary came beside him on the balcony. Her dark hair blew in the wind, and her facial expression was one of resolve. She was so beautiful, it made his heart ache.

"We should arrive soon," she said. "Whatever happens will decide the fates of our countries. Should Scotland go to war with France – "

"Mary, I know what you're going to say," Francis said softly, "and you don't need to say it. You are Scotland's queen. You're going to do what is best for your nation, as you must."

"Yes, Francis. I will do what is best for Scotland, whatever it takes." There was resolution in her voice, but sadness as well. "I told you once that I would choose my country if it ever came down to a choice between France and Scotland."

"You did."

"I just hoped it would never come to that choice," confessed Mary, "but it has, but that isn't what I was going to say." She reached for his hand, and he let her take it. "Whatever happens, Francis, know that I love you. Francis, _I love you._" She caressed his cheek, and there was vulnerability in her eyes that only she would let him see. There was fear and despair and yearning and love in her gaze, and in spite of everything, Francis felt a surge of his love for her rush through him. Passionate, consuming, and still burning brightly and as intensely as the stars in the night sky.

"Oh God, Mary…" He cupped her face in his hands, bringing their lips together, and he felt her arms wrap around him as she returned the kiss. Mary nipped and gently tugged at his lip, gently whispering his name.

"_Francis_," she murmured. "I love you."

And yet, Francis couldn't bring himself to say the words in return.

* * *

The ship finally docked the following morning. Mary and her husband disembarked to a cheering crowd, crying out her name. She waved and smiled at the crowd as they made their way to their carriage that would take them to Scottish court. _I expected I would be happier upon returning, _she thought, _but I feel empty. Hollow. _Francis seemed to sense her uneasiness, and he took her hand in his in comfort.

"It's going to be okay, Mary," he promised her. She smiled weakly at him before tearing her gaze from him. He couldn't keep that promise, no matter how much he wanted to. Nothing was certain in war and politics. Alliances were broken just as swiftly as they'd been forged. Treachery was in every corner, unseen and lurking, until it was too late. She'd once been certain that the Auld Alliance between their countries was strong. How quickly things changed!_ If I am unable to calm the uprisings, I will have no other choice but to turn to Elizabeth. As soon as affairs are settled here, I shall board the next ship to England. _She could only pray that Francis would understand.

"We're here," she said as the carriage came to a halt. The door opened, letting her and Francis climb out. A fanfare boomed, announcing their arrival. The castle gates opened, and it was then that she saw her mother make her way to them. Marie de Guise offered her a tight smile, but Mary didn't smile back.

"Mary, my dear. Why are you here? Don't tell me. You heard about the uprisings." Marie's tone was unamused and biting. Mary felt Francis tense behind her, and she grabbed his hand in reassurance.

"I have, Mother," she answered. "Scotland threatens to go to war with France, and from what I've been told, your reign as queen regnant has been quite tumultuous."

"I've been doing what I can to keep the situation in control, Mary," said Marie harshly. "Let's discuss this inside." She led Mary and Francis inside and to the throne room..

"We've come to settle the peace between Scotland and France to stop a war that we cannot win," Mary to Marie. "They will listen to their queen. And their king."

"You must be truly stupid to think that the people will believe you when you claim peace, Mary," her mother said blithely. "They want blood. _French _blood. We wouldn't be in this situation if the Medici bitch hadn't butchered your men."

"Then, what do you propose we do?" Francis interjected. "Let our countries go to war while England is just waiting for its retribution for Calais?"

"I hear things, Francis," Marie said matter-of-factly. "People want Mary dead. Not just the English, but the French too. I suggest you try to protect my dearest daughter, while you can."

"Was that a threat towards my wife?" he snarled.

_He distrusts her, _realized Mary, _and with good reason. _"We would not be in this situation if you hadn't sold Scotland to France," she snapped.

"Excuse me?"

"You and Catherine put a secret clause in my marriage contract that guaranteed that Scotland would belong to France if I died without issue," Mary went on frigidly. "That indenture no longer stands. Catherine burned it. All of it. I made sure of it. You have proven nothing to me except that you are no ally. You may have Scottish blood, but you've made it more than clear to me that you do not have Scotland's best interests at heart. Your title as queen regnant means nothing to me."

"What're you going to do? Execute me for treason?" taunted Marie. "I'm your mother, and the regnant of Scotland."

"I just might do so," Mary said hotly. "I am _queen_ of Scotland, and you have betrayed my country. _Our _country. Guards, surround the queen regnant."

"What the _hell_ do you think you're doing, Mary?" her mother demanded. "I'm your mother! I have done much for Scotland while you've been in France, _fucking the dauphin and his bastard brother_!"

"The _king_," she said ruthlessly, "of France _and_ of Scotland. Guards, lock her in the dungeon, and let no letters pass through her cell walls. Nobody will see her without my given consent, or I will have their heads on a pike. Get this conspirator out of my sight." She spat out the word _traitor _as if it brought a bitter taste to her mouth. Francis put a hand on her arm, and she faced him.

"Mary, are you certain of this?" her husband asked.

"I am," she said. "I will not have a traitor rule as regnant in my stead, Francis. It doesn't matter to me – it s_houldn't _matter to me – that she's my mother. I know things between us have been difficult, but right now, you're the only person I can turn to. I need you, Francis."

"What happened between us on the ship…," began her husband. "I shouldn't have kissed you. This marriage…it was conceived from politics, the treaty between our countries. It should stay that way, Mary, for both of our sakes. _Love is irrelevant to people like us_. We're rulers, above all, and we've let ourselves become blinded because we let ourselves love each other. How many times have we let our hearts lead us, and all that has come out of it is pain and misery?"

"It was _not_ all misery, Francis!"

"Most of it was," said Francis quietly. "Mary, I give you my word that I will help you make peace between our countries, but – "

"But what?" she demanded, her anger igniting. "_What_, Francis?" How could he be so utterly calm? How could he say this to her right now? She wanted to beat her fists against his chest, to yell and scream at him until her voice became hoarse, for his audacity to do this to her.

"But, we can't be what we once were," he finished. "We can't. Mary, I can't let myself love you. I won't."

"What are you saying?" Mary was furious. She was on the verge of shouting. How could she have let it come to this? "Are you saying that you don't love me anymore? Is that what you're trying to say?" Francis looked away, not meeting her eyes. "Look at me, Francis! _Look me in the eye_, and tell me that you don't love me anymore."

Her husband met her angry stare. His eyes were filled with sadness and regret and earnestness. She thought she saw tears shining, but she couldn't be sure. "I don't love you anymore, Mary," he said gently, but firmly.

_There it is. _It felt as if someone had stabbed her in the heart. Mary couldn't breathe, couldn't think. Her emotions were warring inside her, battling each other for dominance. Anger, sorrow, disbelief, shock, numbness. _For so long, I have feared becoming a woman he will not love, _she thought, _and now he's lost to me. _A tear ran down her cheek. She couldn't hear Francis' words over the pounding of her heart.

"I will always love you in a way," her husband continued, "but I will not be ruled by my heart anymore." Mary was about to respond when suddenly, there was a roar of cheering and applause from outside the castle. Faintly, she could hear the people crying, "_MARY! MARY! QUEEN MARY! BLOOD OF FRANCE! MARY! MARY! BLOOD OF FRANCE!" _

"It's time, Francis," she said bitterly, "to tell my people of the strength of our union. To _lie _to them." She took a deep breath, hastily dashing away her tears, as her husband took her hand and the doors opened. Mary was swept by a sea of allegiance and love, and yet, she was utterly and completely alone.


	6. Chapter Six: To Lose A Brother

Francis' hand was warm in Mary's as they made their way outside. The crowd was raucous, screaming her name and for French blood. There was a rabid hatred in their eyes when they looked upon him that unsettled him, and a fanatical love for Mary. _The only reason they haven't mobbed me is because Mary is their queen, _he realized. Mary raised her hand in the air, and the people fell silent.

"War between our country and France threatens," Mary said resolutely, "while England is slowly regaining its strength after my husband retook Calais. War threatens because of the brutal murder of my countrymen at the hands of Queen Catherine de Medici. I say to you now, that _there will be no war between Scotland and France_. How much more Scottish blood need be spilt upon French soil? How much more blood need be spilt at all? There is no hostility between our respective nations. The alliance has become strong, as our union has." Francis found himself staring at his wife, awed by her. She was so strong and determined and beautiful; even now, it stole his breath away.

"_BLOOD! BLOOD! FRENCH BLOOD! FUCK THE FRENCH_!" The assembly was shouting again, raising their fists in the air, trying to make their voices heard over one another as they shoved each other out of their way, trying to get closer to Mary. "_FUCK THE ALLIANCE_!"

"_My wife,_" Francis put in, _"is pregnant with my son. The heir to the French throne. The alliance between France and Scotland will not fail._" Mary looked to him, confusion and worry written plainly on her face. The mob's anger was reaching feverish levels. _They are not convinced, _he thought gravely. _There is no stopping this war. _Her hand tightened in his; she was scared, but she concealed it well.

"Francis, you need to go back to France," she told him. "It's unsafe for you here in Scotland. France needs you more than my people. _Your people need their king_."

"What about you, Mary?" he countered. "Do you mean to stay here?" They were shouting over the mob.

"I have some affairs that need to be settled," his wife answered. "I'll return to France as soon as I can. I promise. I'll be okay. _Go_." Her eyes were pleading with him, but his intuition was screaming at him that Mary was all but safe. _How can I leave you when your life has fallen into greater danger than it has before? _he wanted to ask. _How can I trust that you'll be safe? _Reluctantly, he let go of her hand and began to make his way through the riotous crowd and back to the carriage. He looked back towards Mary; it pained him to leave her, but he had to return to France. He could do nothing but trust her word that she would come back to him when the time was right.

Two words fell upon her lips. Francis could not hear them over the deafening mob, but the wind carried them the way it carries leaves. Effortlessly and softly. _Be safe._

* * *

The castle was eerily deserted, or at least to Francis, it appeared so. The halls were vacant, and there was not another soul in sight. His arrival hadn't even been announced. _I've only been gone for a few days. What happened in my absence? _He wandered the halls, searching for someone – anyone – who could explain to him what was going on. Something wasn't right, and a wave of foreboding came over him. For a moment, he was relieved that Mary was back in Scotland, away from whatever calamity had fallen over the palace. The only sounds in the halls were his footsteps as he headed towards Catherine's chambers. She had to be here.

And, indeed, she was. She was with a tearful Kenna; Nostradamus was there, too. "…_Have to do something! We have to save him. Catherine, I can't lose him. Nostradamus, don't you have something – anything – that can help him?"_

"No. I'm sorry, Kenna," said Nostradamus gravely. "I've done everything I can – for him, and the others who have fallen ill. All we can do is make him comfortable and wait for his suffering to end." Kenna began to sob, and Francis willed himself to step into the room. His heart was hammering in his chest; he was dreading what they would tell him.

"Francis!" Catherine exclaimed. "You're back. Why isn't Mary with you?"

"She is staying in Scotland," he told her. "Mother, what is going on?" Catherine looked towards Nostradamus, who simply nodded.

"Tell him. He has a right to know," Nostradamus urged her. The knot in Francis' stomach only tightened, making it difficult for him to breathe. "Go on, Catherine." His mother rose, meeting his eyes. Her gaze was solemn.

"It's Bash, Francis," she began gently.

"What about my brother?" Francis forced the words out through the constricting in his chest. Catherine took his hand in hers, and heaved a sigh.

"He's dying," his mother said, "of the plague. He collapsed during Greer and Castleroy's wedding, and he's been in Nostradamus' care ever since. Nostradamus says he doesn't have much time left; he'll die within two days, if not sooner. I'm sorry." He took a step backwards, horror and shock arising within him.

"No. Bash isn't dying. He isn't." He was scarcely aware of the tears blurring his vision and streaking down his face. "No, no, no. This can't be happening. _This can't be happening_." _I can't lose my brother. I can't. _It'd only been days since the death of their father. _Days since I killed him, _he thought, _And God sees it fit to take my father and my brother from me only days apart from each other. _

"He's been asking for you, Francis," said Kenna. "He wants to see you." She choked on a sob. "Go to him. You should go."

"Where is he?"

"He didn't want to be in Nostradamus' ward, so he's in his own chambers." She nodded in encouragement through her tears. "Go."

* * *

"Francis," Bash whispered. "You're here." He smiled weakly before breaking out coughing. His fingers were black, and a cold rag was over his forehead. Francis could see the beads of cold sweat running down his brother's face. "I've been waiting for you."

"Shhh, don't talk." He sat down at his brother's side. Gently, he took the rag off his forehead before gently placing a hand to his brow. "Bash, you're burning up."

"Don't worry about me, little brother," said Bash gently. "The pain will end soon, and I will be in God's arms. Perhaps I will see our father as well." Francis took his hand in his. His hand was deathly cold; it felt as if he were holding ice.

"I am going to save you. I'm not going to let you die. I _won't_," he swore. "You still have a chance to pull through this alive. There is still hope. I know Mother and Nostradamus say that you're not going to make it, but I don't believe that." Tears leaked from his eyes, and his voice trembled. "I need you to hold on, Bash. _Live. _For me, and for your wife. _Please_."

"I'm not afraid of dying, brother. I knew the risks when I came for you in that village," his brother said, "and I…I would do it again in a heartbeat if it meant saving you. You're my brother, Francis. I should be the one to protect you, not the other way around. It's my job to look after my thorn-in-the-ass little brother. It's what I've been doing my entire life. When I was betrothed to Mary…and you were in exile, I checked up on you, you know. I…needed to know that you had found happiness away from court."

"Must we talk about the past?" Francis asked, choking on a sob. Bash squeezed his hand, a single tear making his way down his face.

"Francis...," he murmured. "I see him in my dreams. Father, I mean."

"They're fever dreams, Bash." Francis felt his brother consolingly stroking his hand with his thumb, rubbing small circles on the back of his palm.

"Sometimes, I see Kenna too," his brother went on dreamily, "and the life we could've had together. Away from court, with our child. I don't want her to be alone when I'm gone." He smiled. "She is the best thing that's ever happened to me. I'm grateful for the time we've spent together. I don't regret a moment spent with her. My Kenna….my wife."

"Bash…"

"I never truly belonged here in court. I was the bastard…you had everything, Francis. Love, inheritance, your entire future planned. I was never truly content here, and it wasn't until I fell in love with Kenna that I realized it. I know I had Father's love, but…" He trailed off, his eyes going towards the door. "_Kenna_…," he breathed. Francis turned around; Kenna was not at the door. "_Kenna!" _

_He's hallucinating, _he realized. "Bash, Kenna isn't here. _I'm _here, and I'm real. _This _is real. Look at me. _Look at me. _I'm your flesh and blood brother and…" He found that he couldn't bring himself to continue as ragged sobs took him over. If another had stumbled upon the scene, they would have seen two brothers: one utterly lost to his deliria as the other wept inconsolably, unwilling to let go of his brother.


	7. Chapter Seven: Restoring Force

"I've given him the milk of the poppy to ease his pain," said Nostradamus. "Francis, I'm sorry…but there is nothing more I can do for Sebastian. His fate is sealed."

"And how in the_ hell_ would you know that?" Francis spat, not once looking towards him. He clutched his brother's cold hand as he slept. Bash looked utterly serene in his slumber; he had never seen his brother look so at peace before. _Fight this, Bash. Don't leave me, please, I beg of you. _"Why must you and Mother insist that he will not survive? He _will. _You've given up hope so quickly. There's got to be something else, something that you've overlooked!"

"I've seen it," said the seer grimly. "Your brother will die. When, I cannot say for certain, but he will die." Francis shook his head furiously, tears running down his cheeks. There had to be something he could do to save Bash. The prophecy of his own death brought upon by his marriage to Mary hadn't come to pass; his fate had changed. Why couldn't Bash's fate change as well? "I'm sorry. I truly am." At those words, something inside him snapped. Violently, he rose from his chair and seized Nostradamus by the collar of his blouse, slamming him into the wall.

"MY BROTHER IS _DYING_ AND THAT IS ALL YOU CAN OFFER ME?" he roared. "YOUR _CONDOLENCES_? YOU SAVED OLIVIA FROM THE DARKNESS. _SAVE BASH. SAVE MY BROTHER_. IS THAT SO DIFFICULT FOR YOU TO DO? DO YOU EXPECT ME TO MERELY SIT HERE AND WATCH MY BROTHER DIE? _DO YOU_? SAVE MY BROTHER, OR I WILL MAKE YOU WISH THAT YOU HAD!"

"What the hell is going on? Francis! Francis, let him go!" Francis felt Kenna's presence behind him as she pried his fingers off Nostradamus. He relented, and let him go. Nostradamus' stare was not angry, but remorseful and filled with pity, as he looked towards him and to Kenna. Without another word, he left the room.

"What was that all about?" Kenna asked. "Was it about Bash?" Francis chuckled bitterly, mopping away some fresh, hot tears. "Francis…"

"He says that he saw Bash's death," he answered, "and that he can't help him anymore. I refuse to believe that, Kenna. We need to help him. Find the best doctors in France, and get them to help him. I don't care what it takes. _I will not lose him._"

"I'll help you," Kenna swore. "Bash is my husband, _the father of my child_." Tears streaked from her eyes and down her face, but her voice was steady and unwavering as she spoke. "One of us should stay with him. He shouldn't be here alone."

"I'll stay with him," Francis offered. "I'll send for you if I – if he needs anything. Go to Nostradamus' ward and see if he has anything left that might prolong his…" His voice broke, and he couldn't bring himself to say it. _His death. _

"Francis, he keeps his concoctions locked up," she pointed out. "How am I supposed to get in? If he catches me…"

"It'll be open, Kenna," he said. "Nostradamus and some of the best doctors in France are tending to the ill in his ward. You don't have to do this if you don't want to, but I won't rest until Bash is well again. We need to save him. I can't lose anyone else I love. I can't." His breaths were coming in ragged gasps, and he was barely conscious of the tears on his face as Kenna pulled him into an embrace as he sobbed.

"Shhh, shhh. It's going to be okay, Francis," she murmured. "We're going to save Bash, I promise. He's going to be okay. We're all going to be okay."

* * *

"You're turning your eye to England? Just exactly how mad are you?" Marie demanded. "The Auld Alliance will break, and Scotland will go to war with France!"

"_There is no peace between our countries, Mother_," said Mary formally. "The people refused to listen to me, and I have run out of options. Scotland cannot win this war, and I don't intend to let my country fall."

"Is that why you've locked me in this dungeon?" her mother snapped. "Because you think I'll bring Scotland's downfall?"

"You _sold_ my country to France," she said. "You've already brought Scotland's downfall. I do not plan on executing you right away; I have affairs that need to be in order in England, and in France." Marie laughed like a madwoman, and Mary glared at her in utter revulsion and hatred. _You are no longer my mother. You betrayed Scotland, and for that, I shall never forgive you. _

"What makes you so sure that Elizabeth will even listen to you, Mary?" Marie challenged. "You've declared yourself for the English throne. She will have your head, and she most certainly won't listen to you. She considers you an enemy to her throne."

"She is my cousin, _Marie_," said Mary. "I no longer have the luxury of trust. It appears as though I have enemies in every corner, even in those whom I believed to be trusted allies to my country. I already made the mistake of trusting you with Scotland. I won't make that mistake again."

"Oh, but you will. And you are. Trusting Elizabeth will cost you your head, and Scotland will fall, one way or another."

* * *

Mary's heart hammered in her chest as the carriage pulled up before the palace. She hadn't written Elizabeth prior to her coming, for she knew that she would never let her pass through the gates. Elizabeth was absolutely ruthless and calculating, and she wouldn't hesitate to have her head if she continued to cross her. Slowly, Mary stepped out of the carriage and made her way inside the castle. She willed her heart to slow, for she knew that Elizabeth condemned weakness and any signs of it. Her heart was one of stone, and she too was willing to do whatever it took to protect England. _As any queen would. _Mary could feel many eyes on her as she walked to Elizabeth's chambers; the people were whispering to each other in wonder, but she looked directly ahead. She was Mary, Queen of Scots, and it didn't matter to her what the commoners thought of her presence here in English court. The fate of Scotland would be determined within only moments. _Elizabeth will either accept my terms, or reject them and Scotland shall fall. _

She opened the door to her cousin's chambers, and Elizabeth rose from her chair, startled. Anger quickly distorted her fair features. "Elizabeth," said Mary coolly.

"Mary," Elizabeth snarled. "Have you come here to claim my throne, or is it something else you seek? You clearly aren't here to kill me otherwise you surely would have sent an assassin after me prior to your coming here. Why are you here, dearest cousin? Mind your tongue, or I shall cut it out for you."

"I have come here to negotiate a possible truce between Scotland and England," she began. "As you must know, war between France and Scotland is brewing and the Auld Alliance is breaking, if it isn't broken already."

"What of it?" her cousin snapped. "I am _England's_ queen, not Scotland's. The welfare of Scotland means nothing to me."

"No, but the welfare of England means everything to you," said Mary sharply. "The French sieged Calais and took it from the English. Your country is in fear of a possible invasion from France, and is awaiting its chance for vengeance. Scotland is strong, yes, but she is vulnerable at all sides. If she _does_ go to war with France, she will not survive."

"What exactly is your proposal?" Elizabeth's face was a cold, hard mask. If she was considering her words, she showed no signs of it.

"An alliance. With Scotland. Scotland's future will be secure, as will England's," Mary continued. "I will renounce my claim to the English throne, for the sake of my country and for yours. We can conquer the French together, and save our countries."

Elizabeth strode over to her, slowly and deliberately. Mary's heart was racing in her chest as she awaited her answer. "You know I don't like it when my enemies suddenly barge through my gates and propose alliances," she said icily.

"What is your answer, Elizabeth? Will you leave England susceptible to attack from the French, or will you fight with Scotland against a common enemy?"

"It seems that I have no other choice but to accept your offer, dearest Mary," said Elizabeth. "So be it. The Scots and the English shall fight side by side against the French. You can consider it done, and the Auld Alliance broken."


	8. Chapter Eight: A Star-Crossed Wasteland

Kenna's heart was pounding in her chest. She'd been searching through Nostradamus' concoctions for the past three hours, and she had found nothing but vials that were either empty or almost completely drained. _There has to be something in here that can help Bash. Something, anything at all. _She quickly looked behind her; Nostradamus wasn't coming yet. _I still have some time to search for a brew that can help my husband, _she realized. From outside, she could hear Nostradamus conversing with some of the doctors. Any moment, he would walk in and find her. Kenna knew that all rights, she shouldn't even be here. _But I am, and I'm doing this for Bash. For Francis, for all of us. _She threw open another drawer, rummaging through its contents. None of the potions she recognized.

She barely stifled a scream of frustration as she slammed it shut. Every moment that passed was another moment that brought Bash closer to death. Tears blinded her as a sob escaped her chest. There truly was nothing that could be done to save her husband. Despair and sorrow engulfed her as she rose to her feet, quickly sweeping out of the ward and returning to Bash's chambers. Francis sat at his side, clutching his blackened hand. "Francis," she called out, and he turned to face her. His eyes were brimming with unshed tears.

"Did you find anything?" he asked her. She shook her head, slowly making her way to him. "Kenna, _please_…"

"I'm sorry, Francis," she said softly. "I looked for hours, and there was nothing." Francis tore his eyes away from her, tears spilling. "I don't know how I'll be able to live without him," she confessed. "Our marriage…it started out as a cruel jape, but now…I'm carrying his child, and he is _leaving_ me_. Why did he have to go into that godforsaken village_? I told him it was a suicide mission, but he wouldn't listen. God, we were supposed to build a life away from here. With our child, and now it's gone. It's all gone."

"I feel as if everyone around me is dying," Francis said despondently. "_Everyone_. Am I _cursed,_ Kenna? Is this God's punishment for my sins?" He shook his head desperately, holding on all the tighter to his brother's cold hand. "My people are dying, and there's nothing I can do about it. My _brother_ is dying, and there's nothing I can do to save him. You know, it hurt like hell when I lost everything after Mary became betrothed to Bash, but _this_? _This_ pain, I cannot bear. For my entire life, Kenna, I've looked up to my brother. Just as I looked up to my father once, and he too is gone." His voice wavered and broke, and Kenna squeezed his shoulder consolingly. He was about to say more when Catherine suddenly barged into the room, a piece of parchment in her hand. Her expression was grim.

"Francis," she said, "you should read this. It's from Mary."

* * *

_From Mary? _Francis looked up towards his mother as she handed him the correspondence. He unfolded it and read it aloud, a cold feeling of dread coming over him. What had happened in Scotland after he'd left? Was she okay? So many thoughts swirled about in his mind, each of them worse than the last.

_My dearest Francis, _

_I write to you from English court, but by the time you receive this letter, I will be sailing on a ship back to France. I can only hope that you can understand why I did what I did. I did it for my country, and I understand if you don't forgive me. I have formed an alliance with England and forsaken my claim to the English throne. The Auld Alliance between France and Scotland is over. War is coming to Scotland, but with the might of England by our side, my country shall not fall and has a fighting chance against France. _

_I never wanted it to come to this, Francis, but above all, I am the queen of Scotland. She comes first. You said to me once that you can't – won't – let yourself be ruled by your heart anymore, and I realize now the gravity of truth in your words. I can't afford to think of my heart when Scotland is at risk. There is so much at stake. My mother imperiled my country, and she is currently imprisoned, awaiting execution. I shall execute her when the time is right; there is much to be done. In France, and for Scotland. _

_I know your duty lies with France. It always has been with France. For so long, we have had to choose between love and duty. Our marriage was founded upon duty: the Auld Alliance. It was supposed to stay hence, but we followed our hearts and it became so much more than just politics – but now, things have changed, and not for the better. We need to think of our countries now. I will do whatever it takes for Scotland, and I know that you will do the same for France. I am sorry, for everything. _

_Mary _

"She's broken the alliance," said Francis solemnly. "She has turned to England for support, and relinquished her claim to the English throne." He cast the letter aside, numb with disbelief. "Does she know what this means for our countries? She might as well have declared war."

"She has, Francis," his mother told him. "This is war – a war we can't possibly win. _Our military is not prepared to fight a war_. Our numbers are too small. We're still attempting to recover from the siege of Calais. You may have had Mary's men fighting at your side, but that's over now. She has joined forces with the Devil himself, and both France and Scotland will _burn_."

"This changes everything," he said, sitting back down beside his brother's bedside. He reached for Bash's icy hand and held it tight, as though it would provide him with the support he needed. He could feel his mother's concerned eyes on him. _We are at war with Scotland, and I'm losing my brother, regardless of what happens. _"It's not going to be safe for Mary here in France after what she's done. Her mother told us that some of the French want her dead."

"She's put the nail on her proverbial coffin now. She made sure of that by forming an alliance with Elizabeth Tudor. If anything, the House of Tudor is ruthless –and the most powerful royal dynasty in all of England. They cut down threats instantly, and without blinking. The House of Valois is strong, yes, but not strong enough to bring down the Tudors alone. We are recuperating from Calais, and France is burning from the plague." There was a sense of trepidation in her words, and Francis felt a strong surge of fear course through him. Fear for his country, fear for his brother, fear for Mary. There was almost no chance for France, he realized with dread, unless another treaty was forged with another country. A country stronger than England and stronger than Scotland, one that could promise a French victory.

_We need to think of our countries now, _Mary had written. _I will do whatever it takes for Scotland, and I know that you will do the same for France. _She had been willing to forge an alliance with France's enemy to save Scotland. Francis knew the lengths she would go for her country. She would cast herself into hellfire for Scotland, if need be.

_Just how far am I willing to go for France? _Francis wasn't sure what scared him more: the question, or that he didn't yet have an answer.


	9. Chapter Nine: Love and Loss

_Scotland's future is secure, but at the cost of the Auld Alliance. _Mary was beset by uncertainties, uncertainties that came unbidden to her mind. She was confident in Elizabeth's word. If anything, Elizabeth was not one to break oaths, especially when alliances were concerned. She was a Tudor, and the Tudors were known to hold treaties sacred. Elizabeth wouldn't betray her, not with England's prosperity weighing on her shoulders. The Stuart-Tudor alliance promised the futures of both Scotland and England, and Mary knew her cousin wouldn't dare put her country at risk if she could help it.

_She has every reason to attempt to kill me, _she thought grimly, _and every reason to keep me alive. If she kills me, and she may as well cast her country into Hell. _Scotland was at war with France, but France didn't have the strength of the English behind them. The House of Stuart was losing influence; Mary had seen as much when she and Francis had attempted to calm the uprisings in Scotland. She was the queen of France, but her heart was with Scotland. Scotland came first, over everything. Over France, over Francis, and over her own happiness.

_I once threatened to bring about the downfall of House Valois. I threatened to bring down my husband's dynasty for Scotland, _she remembered grimly. _I would do it again, if it ever came to such a choice. _And it scared her. She was Francis' wife – _France's queen_. Francis would never forgive her, she knew, but she was no longer the soft, innocent and naïve girl she once was. She was a queen. The Queen of Scots, and he was the king of France. Their duties were to their countries, and always would be. _Love is truly irrelevant to people like us. Our nations are at war. The House of Stuart is at war with the House of Valois. _

"Your Grace, we're here!" the captain announced, breaking her reverie. She rose from her cot, making her way out to the deck. A carriage sat waiting for her to take her back to French court. _Now, I shall see where the petals have fallen._

* * *

"Mary! You're here, thank God!" Catherine exclaimed. "So much has happened in your absence." Her relief gave way to anger, then. "Including the end of the Auld Alliance," she added venomously. "What madness possessed you to turn to England?" She shook her head and quickly waved her hand in dismissal. "God help us all, Mary."

"What is going on, Catherine?" demanded Mary. "The castle seems all but abandoned. I was not announced nor greeted upon my arrival. Where's Francis? Where is everyone?" She feared the worst, but she didn't let her fear show. She was France's queen, and she had to show strength for her people. Catherine's eyes were filled with grave resolve, and she steeled herself before she spoke.

"The plague has hit the castle," she answered. "Many have fallen ill…Francis is with Sebastian, and he hasn't left his side once."

_The plague? _"How is that possible? I thought the castle was secure!" Mary shook her head in disbelief. "Is Francis well? Please don't tell me he's fallen ill, I beg of you." _If I lost Francis, I know I would die. _

"Francis is well, Mary," the wiser queen assured her, "but Sebastian is not. He is dying…and Francis is deep in denial. Go to him, Mary. Go."

* * *

"I'm surprised Bash has held on for as long as he has," Nostradamus said, "but he will not survive the night. I am so sorry, Francis." Francis looked towards his sleeping brother, tears blurring his vision and spilling over. He didn't even notice the apothecary take his leave. Bash was deathly pale, and his breaths were coming in slow. His fever had reached an unfathomable peak, and his skin was turning black. His deliriums had become much too powerful; he'd had to be given the milk of the poppy to soothe him on more than one occasion. _Too often, _he realized.

Bash moaned in pain, and with great effort, he slowly opened his eyes and looked towards him. He managed a weak and pained smile at the sight of his brother. "You're still here, little brother," he said quietly.

"I never left, Bash," Francis told him. "I've been by your side, waiting for you to wake up. Kenna will be here soon. We're never giving up on you. Hold on for just a little while longer, brother, _please._"

"There's nothing more you can do for me, Francis," Bash murmured, and squeezed his hand consolingly. "I'm not…I'm happy with the way my life turned out. There is nothing I would give in exchange for what I was granted. My time with Kenna, and reconnecting with you…my brother. I want you to promise two things."

"Anything."

"I want you…to look after Kenna after I'm gone, Francis," he said. "I don't want her to be alone. She is carrying my child…try to find her another suitor. Someone who treats her right…and will love our child as if he were their own. She deserves to be happy, and she shouldn't raise our child unaided."

"And the other?" Francis pressed, fresh and hot tears dripping down his cheeks. He could feel Mary's presence behind him as she stood in the doorway, but he didn't look back towards her.

"Don't grieve for me," said Bash. "You're my little brother…and you have enough troubling you. The war…Mary, your _daughter_, the plague…"

_And Father, _thought Francis dejectedly, and the thought was a punch to the gut. He couldn't breathe through the pain. It threatened to sweep over him all at once, to overwhelm him until the pain was all there was. "Bash...," he began. "Don't do this. Don't go. I can't lose you, too. After _everything_ we've been through…"

"Shhh, shhh," his brother murmured. "Francis, Francis…I'm going to be okay. You're going to be okay. You're going to live your life with Mary. You're going to reconcile with your wife and rule France together, with your children and grandchildren and great grandchildren after you. You will see this war between France and Scotland ended, and our nation rebuilt from the ashes. I'm proud of you, little brother. I always am. I'm proud of _us._" He smiled faintly. "Remember when we were boys, Francis? You were about five years-old. I think I was eight. You used to have these frequent nightmares…about what, I cannot recall, but you would run – not to Mother's chambers or to Father's – but to mine, and I would dash all your fears and bad dreams away. Do you remember?"

Francis let out a chuckle that came out as a sob. "Yes, I remember. You would tell me stories about my glorious future as king with Mary by my side. You would be my right-hand man, and help me and Mary make the right decisions for France."

"I love you, little brother." The words were almost inaudible, and Bash's eyes were slowly closing.

"I love you, Bash," Francis choked, and his brother's eyes finally closed. He exhaled quietly, and went still. Bash's grip on his hand loosened. "Bash? Bash, wake up! Bash, open your eyes! Bash? _Bash_!" This couldn't be happening. This was _not _happening. Bash couldn't be dead. He couldn't. He bowed his head, sobbing, and didn't fight Mary as she came up from behind him and tenderly embraced him. His hand found hers, and he clutched it tight, as if it were his only salvation.

"I am so, so terribly sorry, Francis."

* * *

"I can't believe it, Mary," said Francis. "He's dead. Bash is _dead_." He and Mary were in their chambers. Bash's body had been taken away by Nostradamus, and was to be cremated alongside that of his father.

"I'm so sorry," Mary said quietly. Her face too was streaked with tears. She hadn't seen Kenna since Bash's passing, and her heart went out for her friend and for her husband. They'd both loved Bash dearly, she knew. "Francis, if you want to talk, you know I'm here for you. Always."

He met his wife's soft, concerned eyes, and he made no effort to fight his tears as he let them fall relentlessly. "My father and my brother are gone from this world, Mary," he said sorrowfully. "_Both of them_, and I feel responsible."

"Don't blame yourself, Francis." Mary drew closer to him, her eyes wet with tears. "Your father's death was _not _your fault, nor was Bash's. You must know that." He shook his head furiously, and a sob escaped his chest.

"No. Mary, you…you don't understand. You don't understand," he cried. All of the pain and grief threatened to swallow him whole; it was becoming too much for him to bear. It was as if there was a huge weight on his soul that would never ease.

"What do you mean? Francis, talk to me. What don't I understand?" Francis took in a deep, shaky breath, willing his voice to steady when he spoke.

"Mary," Francis began, "before I left the castle for Lola and my daughter…I told you that I was at my father's tourney, and that I saw the way he touched you."

"Yes," said Mary, "but what does this have to do with –"

"_I killed my father, Mary_!" he blurted. "_I murdered him_! My father is dead because of me! His blood is on my hands, and _I don't know how I can live with that_." _I killed my own father. _"Oh my god. I killed my father. I killed him. I killed him, _I killed him_!" Horror and guilt and grief washed over him, overwhelming him completely, as he began to sob. "Oh my god, _oh my god_."

"Shhh, shhh," his wife soothed, taking him into her arms. "It's alright, Francis. I'm here." Francis wept into her shoulder, welcoming Mary's comfort. "I will not allow you to carry this burden for the rest of your life. This is our burden, and we'll share it together."


	10. Chapter Ten: Pieces and Players

The night passed by slowly and without end. It seemed to Mary that it would never end. Her heart was heavy with grief for Bash and sympathy for Francis. _My husband has lost a father and a brother, _she thought mournfully, _and he has been carrying the burden of murdering his father. _She held Francis as he wept – his raw grief and guilt bursting out of him after being bottled up for so long – wishing the entire time that she could take his pain away. It wasn't right, none of it was. Her lies and the drastic measures she'd taken to protect Scotland, and his immeasurable agony for murdering his father and losing his brother.

Mary felt a pang of longing, a longing for much simpler times. _We were once just a boy and a girl, innocent and carefree, without such troubles burdening us. How things have changed. _She was a queen, and Francis a king, but in this moment, they were not rulers. They were husband and wife, relying upon one another in a time of grief and loss. None of their personal differences mattered. Their strife was forgotten: her lies about his daughter, her decision to break the Auld Alliance by turning to England were all disregarded. She tightened her hold as she felt her husband's body shake whilst he sobbed. His sobs finally slowed to shudders, and he gently pulled himself out of her arms.

"Francis," Mary said softly. Slowly, reluctantly, she reached towards him and caressed his cheek. Her finger caught a stray tear, and she slowly shook her head, her heart breaking for her husband. "I…I am so sorry, for everything. For lying to you about Carmen for all of these months, and for so much more. It hurts me to see you hurting like this. You should not have to go through this alone."

"I understand now why you wished to spare me from being involved in my father's murder, Mary," Francis confessed. "A strange sort of mercy…but this is my cross to bear. I will not have you share my darkness."

"You told me once that you would not let me be alone in my struggles," she said, stroking her husband's cheek with her thumb. "I won't let you be alone in yours. I know things between us have been difficult, but I am begging you, Francis, let me back in. Don't shut me out. Don't hide from me. _Please_." Francis met her gaze, and she found her eyes diverting to his lips. She yearned for his touch, to feel his lips on hers, to feel him take her in his arms – and she hated herself for it. _My husband is grieving for his father and his brother, and all I can think of is feeling his love in return. _

Francis tucked a strand of hair behind her hear, and Mary's heart skipped a beat at his touch. He leaned their foreheads together, combing his hands through her hair and caressing her. She was certain that he could hear her heart hammering in her chest. "Mary," he whispered. Her name was a prayer upon his lips, with so many unspoken words bubbling beneath the surface. "Mary, I…I want to. I want you."

_I want you. _The words echoed in her head, and everything in her wanted to succumb to him, but it wasn't right. It just wasn't right. Bash was dead, and their hearts were heavy with grief. Mary didn't know where she and Francis stood in their marriage; so much had gotten between them, and so much more still stood between them. Her skin was set afire at Francis' touch; no matter how hard she tried to fight it, her body instantly reacted to his caress. She found herself leaning forward, pushing her lips to his, desperate for him. Their lips met briefly as Francis reached behind her, frantically untying her corset. The kiss became frantic and desperate and furious; Mary was lost in her husband, and he was lost in her. She tugged at his blouse, and Francis pulled it up over his head before throwing it to the floor.

"Mary," he said breathlessly. "Oh God, _Mary_." He kissed her again, furiously fumbling with her gown. Mary shrugged it off of her shoulders, and let it fall to her feet. Francis broke their kiss, drinking in her naked form. Her heart was racing in her chest; with anticipation or fear – fear that he would suddenly shut her out – she wasn't certain. He ran his hand down from her shoulder to her bared breast before he planted a kiss to her cheek, and then to her collarbone, and then to her neck. Slowly, Francis made his way down her body, kissing her bare skin. Mary knotted her hands in his hair, closing her eyes in pure bliss, when abruptly, the door flew open.

"I apologize to interrupt Your Grace, Your Grace, but Queen Catherine seeks a word with both of you immediately," reported a guard. Mary and Francis jumped apart, startled by the sudden intrusion.

"Thank you," said Francis. Mary covered herself with her hands, mortified at her indecency. It was different when she was with Francis; she didn't care when she was with him. They were man and wife, and had made love on more than one occasion. "You may leave us now." The guard nodded and left, but not before staring at Mary's nudity for a brief few moments. Hastily, she and her husband dressed themselves before making their way to Catherine's chambers. Not a single word was exchanged between them; all Mary could think of was her husband's gentle touch and the feeling of his lips against her bare skin. He still loved her, she realized. Perhaps he had always loved her. Her skin was tingling with the memory of his touch.

Mary pushed these thoughts out of her mind when she and her husband reached Catherine's chambers. "Catherine, you wanted to –" Her words were cut off as Catherine slapped her across the face.

"Mother!" Francis exclaimed. Mary brought her hand to her cheek, and when she pulled it away, she was bleeding. She glared at Catherine, just as angry as she was shocked.

"_Do you have any idea what you've done, Mary_?" Catherine spat. "We received your letter. _France will fall because of the choice you have made_!" Francis exchanged a glance with his mother, and when he spoke, he was calm, but there was an underlying anger lurking beneath the surface.

"Why did you do it, Mary?" he asked her. "You have endangered my country, and for what reason? To save Scotland? You may be Scotland's queen, but you are also _France's_ queen as well. Have you forgotten that? _Have you lost all sense_?" Mary felt her temper spark as she whirled to face her husband.

"Yes, I did it to save Scotland, Francis!" she said angrily. "You of all people know where my duty lies: _with my country. _I am France's queen, but I will not idly stand by while my country burns."

"And what of my country, Mary?" Francis challenged her. "You have set France on a collision course with England, one that it may not survive! The plague is spreading like wildfire, and war rages. You have brought about the downfall of my country. What have you done? _What have you done?_" His anger bled through his mask of calm composure, and he was shouting at her now.

"I did what I had to do for Scotland, Francis," said Mary matter-of-factly. "I'll do whatever it takes to save my country. You know that." She approached her husband slowly and deliberately. "We are rulers, and sometimes, that means making difficult choices regardless of the consequences." Gently, she placed her hand above his heart and smiled sadly. "You know I love you, but she comes first. Scotland comes first." Francis took her hand, his gaze solemn.

"You two can discuss your marital troubles another time," Catherine snapped. "We have bigger problems. Right here in France. It started shortly after you and Francis left for Scotland. The people have heard of the Scottish revolts and how they lust for French blood. They too have begun rioting. France is in an uproar. The plague has spread to the far ends of the country, and not even the best doctors can help them. The people are growing desperate, and angry with you, Mary, for ending the Auld Alliance. They see you as nothing but a traitorous queen. It will not be safe for you here in court."

"_It never is safe for me, Catherine_," said Mary vehemently.

"The people want you dead, Mary," Francis told her. "Your mother warned us of this. There is no use in trying to temper the situation; we saw as much in Scotland. The people want war, when neither of our countries can afford it."

"And yet here we are, Francis," said his mother. "The French fighting the Scots and the English. If I so chose, I could hire an assassin to arrange an 'accident' for Mary and end all of this nonsense – but I will not. There is no need for more bad blood between our countries."

"You wouldn't actually _try _to kill my wife, would you?" he asked.

"Francis, dear. I'm not Elizabeth. I'm not a Tudor," Catherine answered. "If I thought Mary posed a threat to France, she wouldn't be standing here with us. I believe Mary can help us – and in helping us, helping herself."

"What are you saying, Catherine?" Mary demanded. "What game are you playing?"

"The game of thrones, Mary," she said, "and whether you are a player or a pawn has yet to be determined. I propose we host a party here at French court; invite all the Scots and French on French soil. We shall see how they interact with the recent developments in our countries, and plot our next move."

"A diversion," Francis affirmed. "Are you certain that is wise? Having the Scots in the same room as the French? They are both out for each other's blood. You said it yourself, Mother."

"Have you any other ideas to distract the people from encouraging bloodshed and war?" she returned. "Soon enough, the people will be at our gates, screaming for Scottish blood. We are vulnerable, regardless of what happens. By allying yourself with Elizabeth, Mary, you have wrought Hell upon both of our countries. Remember, Lucifer was cast out of Heaven not because he loved God too much, but because he blatantly _defied _Him."

"You think I defied France," Mary said. It wasn't a question. She knew she had defied France by breaking the alliance, but she harbored no regrets. Her heart was slowly hardening, and as much as it scared her, she had killed the girl she had once was. The woman, the queen, was born and rising from the ashes.

"You did," snapped Catherine, "but it makes no matter anyway. Leave me."

* * *

Francis couldn't remember a party at the castle that couldn't be more extravagant than his wedding to Mary. More than half of France had attended, with several hundred Scots as well. They were sharing drinks and dancing and mingling with another, all but forgetting the war between their nations. He was glad there was a peace between the guests, but he knew all too terribly well that it was momentary. So much could go wrong tonight. The French and the Scottish could brutally slaughter each other, and the peace would be broken. Even with Mary in his arms as they danced, his thoughts were dark and grim.

Mary was solemn as well. She forced smiles whenever they spoke with their guests, and there was a cold resolution in her eyes. "I hope your mother knows what she's doing, Francis," she said finally.

"She does, Mary," Francis answered. "When the time is right, she will send for us. We need to give her time. She is speaking with your uncle right now."

"I know you have grave reservations about him," Mary said aloofly.

"I never trusted him," he admitted, "and I never will. I'm certain he would have killed me during the siege of Calais had he not gained something from me in return for keeping me alive."

"No, he wouldn't do such a thing…would he?" A seed of doubt was in his wife's voice. "I trust my uncle, but I've learned that trust is a luxury I cannot afford." Francis nodded in agreement. If anything, Christian de Guise was as power-hungry as his father had been and as unforgiving as Elizabeth Tudor. He could not be trusted, and for a moment, Francis wondered if he could be trusted with Mary's life.

_With the situation between France and Scotland, to trust the Duke of Guise with my wife would trust her with the enemy, _he thought grimly. "I don't know what your uncle is capable of, but he is no friend to us. I advise you to be cautious when you're with him, Mary. He may be your uncle, but…"

"After my mother's betrayal, it seems I cannot trust even my own family," Mary said. "The House of Stuart is filled with vipers hiding in the flowers."

"Let us hope that none are in the garden of the Tudors," Francis concurred. "The Tudors are roses, yes, but you almost never see the serpents underneath until it is too late. I hope you know what _you _are doing by forming an alliance with them. You staked your claim for England during my father's tourney, and now you're trusting Elizabeth with your country and your life."

"I trust that Elizabeth will not break the alliance between Scotland and England. The fate of my country is tied to hers now. She wouldn't dare risk England if Scotland's salvation meant England's salvation as well. I –"

"_Queen Mary! King Francis_!" Mary was interrupted by the words of a very drunken man. He had two cups of wine in his hands, and was unsteady on his feet. "How great it is to meet my new king and queen!"

Mary laughed gaily; Francis' heart swelled as he realized that this was the first time in months she had ever truly laughed. He wanted to see her happy again, to see her smile once more. "It's a pleasure to meet you as well, my lord. I advise you not to drink too much tonight."

The lord threw his head back and let out a bellow of laughter. Francis felt uneasy, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't shake the feeling. He wrapped an arm around Mary's waist protectively. Startled, she shot a glance towards him. "_What are you doing_?" she hissed.

"I don't trust this man," he whispered into her ear.

"I am very sorry about your father and half-brother, Your Grace," the drunken lord said to Francis. "Jousting tourneys and the plague…"

"Thank you for your condolences," Francis said tightly. "Now, if you would excuse me and my wife, we would like to share a dance." He offered his hand, and Mary took it gladly.

"No, wait!" the lord exclaimed. "I would like to propose a toast. _To Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots_! I know you will do greatness for France!" He hastily gave her the other flagon in his hand before raising his cup into the air and downing it. Mary smiled, and she sipped from the flagon he'd given her. The tipsy lord smiled at her, but this time, it was not a smile of friendliness. "The French send their regards," he said cheerily.

Almost as if on cue, Mary's cup fell from her hand, and it shattered to the ground upon impact. Her hand flew to her throat as she began to gasp for air. Fury raged inside Francis as he lunged for the French lord. His fist connected with the lord's mouth, knocking him to the floor. "WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO TO MY WIFE?" he roared. In his peripheral vision, he could see Mary clawing at her throat with her fingers as she struggled to breathe. "_WHAT DID YOU DO_?" Over and over and over again, he struck him. His knuckles were red with blood, and he was shaking with fear for Mary and rage at the man for what he'd done to her.

"_Long live the queen_," the lord spat, and Francis hit him one final time. The floor was stained with blood, and the other guests were in a panic. His mother shoved her way through the crowd, with Nostradamus following close behind her. Francis rushed towards Mary; she had collapsed, and was lying on the floor, twitching and tearing at her throat. Her eyes were wide with terror.

"_No, no, no, no, no_," Francis cried. "Mary! MARY!" A scream of anguish tore from his throat. This couldn't be happening. _God has taken my father and Bash from me. Does he truly mean to take Mary as well? _Nostradamus pushed him out of the way, scooping Mary into his arms.

"I can save her, Francis," said Nostradamus, "but I must hurry."

* * *

"How can you be so certain that you got to her in time?" Francis demanded. "What kind of poison did she drink?" So many questions swirled about in his mind, but one thing was certain: Marie de Guise had been right. The French wanted to see Mary dead, and they were willing to do anything to make it happen.

"If I hadn't gotten to her in time, Mary would certainly be dead," said Nostradamus. "The poison that was used is incredibly rare. Only the world's most proficient alchemists know how to make the Strangler, Francis. A moment later and France would have lost its queen. I am sorry I could not save Sebastian."

_Bash. _Francis looked away from Nostradamus, tears streaking from his eyes, and he squeezed his wife's hand. "I don't want to talk about my brother right now, Nostradamus," he snapped. "Go, _leave us_!" Nostradamus nodded, and left the room. Francis looked back towards his unconscious wife, blinded by tears. _Death almost took you from me, _he thought gravely. _The ultimate penance for my sins. _He pressed a hand to his mouth, sobs threatening to choke him as regrets filled his mind. He couldn't bear resentments and bitterness towards Mary anymore, not after what had transpired tonight. Death greeted him at every turn, taking his father and brother and almost taking Mary. Could he bring himself to resent her still, for all she'd done? He could still remember how he had almost given in to her after Bash had died; whether it was out of love or lust, he didn't know for certain, but now he knew.

"_I love you, Mary_," Francis murmured, "and it is I who should be sorry for everything. Not you. I'm sorry I lied to you about my feelings for you. I'm sorry I've been so cruel and bitter. I'm sorry for pushing you away, for all of it. I –"

"Francis?" Mary whispered. Her eyes slowly opened, and she stroked his cheek. She smiled, and he leaned into her touch. "Oh, Francis…"

"Thank God, you're awake," he said, laughing through his tears. He leaned forward and kissed her forehead, uncaring that he was crying openly in front of his wife. "I've been so worried about you. _So _worried."

"I'm okay now," reassured Mary. "I'm okay." At those words, Francis wept. Mary took him into her arms, holding him the way she'd held him after Bash had died, but his tears were not of sadness but of relief. She kissed his hair and murmured, "I am not leaving you, Francis. _Never_."

* * *

Francis was waiting for her in their chambers. Mary closed the door behind her, and smiled gently at her husband. She felt something had changed between them since the incident at the party, and for the better. Maybe there was hope for them, after all. She approached him, and abruptly, he cradled her face in both of his hands and kissed her passionately. So many unspoken words hung in the air between them, and all of them were poured into the kiss. Mary threw her arms around her husband, returning the kiss with all the love she bore for him before they broke apart.

"I love you, Mary," her husband said breathlessly.

"You…what?" she asked. For so long, she had yearned to hear him say those words again. _In my heart, I have always known you have continued to love me. _To hear them now left her speechless. "I...I don't understand. Francis, you said that –"

"I lied," Francis said. "I was hurt and angry, but I've never stopped loving you. _Never. _Mary, _I love you. _Do you hear me? I love you." He kissed her again as he tore her white nightdress off her shoulders and pulled his blouse up over his head and tossed it to the floor. Mary felt herself give in to Francis as passion reigned between them, passion igniting passion. When they finally fell upon the bed, Francis whispered words of love into her ear as he made love to her. She cried out in ecstasy, and he felt her climax surge through him.

"I love you, Francis."

"As I love you, Mary."


	11. Chapter Eleven: I See Fire

Mary rested in Francis' arms, their limbs tangled beneath the sheets. He couldn't remember the last time he had seen her so utterly and completely serene. His wife was burdened by her own struggles; she rarely smiled in true happiness, rarely laughed. There was no peace, in her or in her world, and there never would be. She was a queen, not a girl. Perhaps she never truly had been merely a girl; upon birth, the Scottish throne had been passed on to her, and she had remained in hiding for years before coming to French court.

_Your days of running from your foes have ended, _Francis thought, _and yet unseen foes continue to plague you, no matter where you go. _He wished more than anything that he could dash her demons and fears away, but he knew that he couldn't. _My own demons continue to haunt me with each passing day. The weight of my burden has eased since I told Mary, but it will never truly lift. _Tonight was his father's cremation, a blatant reminder from God Himself to Francis of what he'd done. Bash was to be cremated afterwards, but his would be an intimate affair; only Francis, Mary, and Kenna would see his burning. Death surrounded court; Bash had been the first to die of the plague, and he wouldn't be the last.

Mary stirred suddenly, interrupting his thoughts. She offered him a soft smile as she caressed his cheek. "Be here with me, Francis," she murmured. "I sense your thoughts are dark." Reassuringly, she took his hand in hers and kissed his fingers. "What troubles you?"

_Where do I even begin? _"Tonight the cremations begin, Mary," he said. "My father, Bash…and the others who have died here. It would seem that death follows me, regardless of where I go."

"The cost of being monarchs," his wife said gently, "are the lives those around you. When Aylee died, my heart…broke and I refused to let anyone else die for me. Not Kenna, not Greer, not Lola…not even you. The thought of losing anyone else I cared for was unbearable, and it still is. When you left the castle to be with Lola, I was terrified that I would lose you. I was terrified that you would never come back to me, that I'd pushed you into Death's arms…" She trailed off, unable to continue, and he kissed her palm before speaking. "I don't want to lose you, Francis. I don't know what I would do, how I would live, without you." She paused, and met his gaze. "How can you forgive me for all I've done? I don't…I don't understand. I lied to you about your daughter, and –"

"I forgive you because I love you," Francis whispered. "I confess, I am still hurt by what you did, but I forgive you. Mary, at the party…I thought I'd lost you. I thought it was too late for Nostradamus to give you the remedy for the poison. The entire time as I sat vigil by your side, waiting for you to open your eyes, all I could think was…_one of the last things I said to you was that I didn't love you_. _Is this how it ends? With resentment and distrust between us?_ I didn't think I could live with myself, if you'd died without knowing the truth."

"But I didn't, Francis," Mary assured him, "and I do. You are my husband, and I love you. You will not be alone in your struggles; I am your wife, and I won't let you ever be alone. Don't you know that? I'll never, _ever _let you be alone." Francis reached for her, caressing her hair. She smiled sadly. "I don't want to think about anything else. Not about the war between our countries or anything else. I just want to stay here and be with you. I want us to be together again." She sighed. "Francis, I cherish our marriage and I know you do too. I know I've lied to you in the past, and I regret it more than anything. I want us to be honest with one another. I hate lying to you, and I hate how it just gnaws at me until there is naught left but guilt and despair. My heart is hardening to steel, and I do not wish to become Elizabeth or Catherine: cold, ruthless, willing to shed innocent blood if it means saving my country."

"Mary, you are not your cousin – nor are you my mother. You are Mary, just Mary. I will not let you lose your sense of who you are," Francis swore. "I promise you." He cupped her face in his hands, making her look back towards him. "_I promise_," he repeated. Feverishly, Mary leaned forward into him, crushing her lips to his.

"Oh, Francis," she whispered into his lips. "_I love you_, my husband." She climbed atop of him, and he quickly rolled over in one swift and fluid motion. Startled, Mary let out a gasp. She smiled as Francis lowered his mouth to hers in a kiss. Mary began to slowly rock her hips against him in a steady rhythm, moaning in bliss. She wrapped her arms around his back, her nails digging into his back. Teasingly, he pulled his mouth away from hers, ending their kiss. Mary whimpered, leaning forward so she may kiss him again, desperately craving for his touch. Instead, Francis buried his face in her breasts, kissing and sucking on each of her nipples before pulling himself forward and bringing her lips to his. She caressed his face, slowly running her hands down his bare chest, eagerly accepting his kiss.

"I never want to leave this bed, Francis Valois," Mary sighed. "_Never_." Francis ran his hand down her bare leg to the smooth curve of her ass, and he squeezed as he pushed and pulled in and out of her. Mary leaned her head back and let out a cry of ecstasy as she climaxed. She gripped the sheets; her eyes were glossed over as she lost herself in her pleasure. "Oh, Francis!" she screamed. "_Francis_! Oh, oh, oh, _OH._" Francis could feel himself reaching his own peak as well as he thrust inside Mary. Push. Pull. Push. Pull. Harder. Faster. Harder. Faster. Harder. Faster. He pushed her body to the limits, pushing his own limits as well. Rasps and moans filled the air; there was nothing in the world to Francis except for himself, Mary, and the endless possibilities of love and pleasure and passion that loomed before them.

Mary writhed and squirmed beneath him, and finally, she surged forward as she tried to kiss him. Francis grabbed her wrists, pinning her to the bed as he began to kiss her body. She cried out in bliss, and Francis soon saw a pink spot between her legs and he kissed her there too. "_Oh, OH_! _FRANCIS! YES! YES!" _Her fingers tangled in his hair, and he lunged forward as she pulled him into another hungry, desperate kiss. "Francis, please," she gasped. "I want – I need you inside me. God, I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you, _I love you._"

"Oh, Mary," Francis murmured breathlessly. "_Mary._" He cupped the back of her neck, pulling her towards him in a sitting position. Mary secured a hand onto the back of his neck and his forearms to support herself as she settled herself into his lap, her legs wrapped about his waist. He planted his hands on her waist as they rebuilt their tempo, their foreheads leaning against each other, continuing to push and pull at each other. Mary hid her face in the curve of his neck, gasping in time with each of his punctuated thrusts. Possessively, protectively, Francis splayed his hands around her backside, running his fingers down her back, feeling the softness of her skin against his. Her body was slick with sweat, as was his. She pulled herself away from his neck, allowing him to gently push her hair behind her ears and shoulders, unveiling her face.

"Y-you're s-so beautiful," Francis gasped, struggling to form his words through heavy breaths. "My Mary, my b-beautiful wife." Mary held his face, tenderly looking into his eyes. Their fingers entwined, and she softly kissed and sucked on his fingers.

"I am yours," she whispered, "and you are mine."

* * *

Mary and Francis made love once again before they dressed. Evening had fallen, and as much as they wanted to stay in each other's arms, they knew they couldn't make love forever. From the window, they could hear the people of court making their way outside to the courtyard. Mary stole a glance towards her husband, her heart heavy with remorse. It was time for the cremation. Not a word was exchanged between them, but Mary took Francis' hand in hers as they too began to make their way to the courtyard. She could sense his tenseness, and all she could offer him was a sad smile. Francis tried smiling back, but his half-hearted smile faltered and he tore his eyes away from her.

"Francis," she said softly. Her husband made no effort to respond as they walked to Catherine's side, before Henry's funeral bier. She held the torch in her hand, her gaze solemn. The priest spoke of how Henry's soul was now with God in Heaven, but it seemed that almost nobody was listening. The people were mesmerized by the two biers that stood before them. _One for their king and one for Bash. _A tear down Catherine's eye, but she remained resolute and strong. She gave Francis the torch, and reluctantly, Mary released his hand as he slowly walked up to his father's pyre.

_God grant him strength, _she prayed_. _Henry's pyre was suddenly afire, the only light in the darkness of the night. The minister began to sing an ode, but Mary's focus was on her husband as he returned to her. His eyes were wet with unshed tears, and when his eyes found hers, it took all of her self-restraint not to rush over to him and envelop him in her arms. They were king and queen, and they had to show strength when the people had none. Francis' battle to keep his emotions in check was visible, and he looked down in an attempt to conceal the fresh tears that fell down his cheeks. Mary's own vision blurred as she felt her husband take her hand, rejoining her side.

"I am so sorry," she whispered, and leaned her head on his shoulder. She felt her husband heave a shaky, teary sigh as he held her close. For several long moments, they watched Henry's funeral bier burn. A heavy silence hung in the air, and soon, the people began to disperse. Only Mary, Francis, Catherine and Kenna remained. Kenna's face was streaked with tears, and Mary knew her tears were not for Henry. Her hand was on her abdomen, and her eyes were filled with despair. Catherine gave her a look of sympathy before making her way to Francis.

"I'll be in my chambers if you need anything," she said. She put a hand on her son's shoulder, and she too left. The priest spoke again, and when it was time, he gave Francis the torch to light Bash's pyre. It was always traditional for the surviving sibling to light the pyre if there were no parents. Diane de Poitiers, Mary knew, had left French court months ago. She was unaware of her son's demise. Perhaps it was better for her if she didn't know that Bash had died of the plague, Mary couldn't help but think. To bring people back into the castle while the plague ravaged inside would be warranting her own death sentence.

Kenna was shaking with sobs; her entire body was trembling so hard she could barely stand upright. Mary drew towards her friend, embracing her as she crumbled, weeping hysterically into her shoulder. "No, no, no please!" she wept. "Bring him back to me! _Bring him back to me, please!_" Mary held Kenna closer to her, whispering words of comfort to her. She looked towards her husband, her heart breaking. Francis remained stoic as he stared at the fire, tears silently spilling from his eyes. Mary gently disengaged from Kenna before making her way to her husband. He was fighting to remain in control of his emotions, but she could see that he was losing the fight. It broke her heart to see Francis hurting like this, knowing there was nothing she could do for him. She wrapped her arms around him, leaning their heads together. Francis welcomed her comfort, returning her embrace. He let out a ragged, choked sob and Mary held him closer to her. Immeasurable pain distorted his features as he succumbed to his grief, weeping brokenly in her arms. Mary felt her own tears on her face, and she let them fall. Francis had lost his brother, Kenna her husband, and she had lost a dear friend. She closed her eyes, letting her sorrow engulf her.

* * *

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. Darkness seemed to settle over court, and death was omnipresent. At first, the cremations were occasional – and then, they became frequent as the plague's black fingers choked life from the people in the castle. The deaths were beyond count. Francis could feel himself giving into despair; his people were dying, and France was fighting a war that it would most certainly lose. Father and Bash were dead, and although it'd been months since they'd died, their losses had inflicted wounds that would never truly heal. All he could feel was hopelessness, and with each passing day, his despair threatened to consume him. Even when he was with Mary, he could not rid himself of his sorrow.

"Francis?" Startled, he turned around. It wasn't Mary, but his mother. "Francis, there's something you should know. It's about England."

_England? _"What do you mean, about England?" he implored. "Mother, it's been months –"

"Elizabeth intends to invade France," she said gravely. "I know this because I intercepted a letter written by Elizabeth herself that was meant for Mary. She's been replenishing her military strength, and she is providing Mary with enough men – her forces as they are now, but hundredfold– so the Scots and the English may attack France unchallenged. Francis, the time to strike is now."

_Elizabeth sees that France is vulnerable, _Francis realized. _This isn't just an invasion. It's a conquest. _"We've lost many men to the plague, but I won't let England take France."

"Francis, _we are not as strong as we once were_!" his mother protested. "We've lost so many of our men to the plague, and more are dying even now."

"I know we aren't as strong!" he shouted. "Mother, if we don't fight, France will fall and belong to England. I won't let that happen. I will bring down England if it becomes necessary." _And Scotland. _Mary's treaty with Elizabeth had forever bound the doom of Scotland to that of England, Francis knew. If England fell, Scotland would go down with it. "Did she say when the invasion would happen?"

"No, she didn't – but I suspect it will be soon. We have no time for delays." Francis met her solemn gaze, and nodded. He couldn't afford to think of Mary now. As much as he loved her, he knew he couldn't let his love for her stand in the way of his duty to France. _Mary broke the Auld Alliance to save Scotland, and endangered France, _he thought darkly. _I can't think of trying to save Scotland with France in peril. _He didn't want to admit it, but he was beginning to truly understand how Mary had been able to end the Auld Alliance and put France in jeopardy. Mary's heart was with Scotland, and she would do anything to save her country. Her love for him meant nothing when Scotland was involved. Francis loathed the depth of truth in that realization, and how it was still – and would always – remain true. He loved her more than anything, but he couldn't think of her when his own country was in danger.

_Forgive me, Mary. Please._

* * *

"You're certain?" Mary asked. "It's been four months now, and my sickness appears to have passed. My breasts are tender, and I have been feeling quite tired, more so than expected." The midwife gently placed a hand to her chest and smiled.

"Your body is changing, Your Grace," she said. "A babe grows inside your womb, the next heir to the throne. A king's son." Mary's heart soared with joy. _I'm pregnant. I'm pregnant with Francis' child. _ After almost a year of marriage, she was finally with child. _Francis' _child. She had given up hope long ago that she would ever become pregnant, after she and Francis had spent time and time again trying. Francis had never lost hope, and she loved him for it.

_ You've been…vigorous in trying to achieve what we both want, _she had said to him once, _but I don't think it's going to happen tonight. _

_Vigorous. Oh, I like that. I thought you did too_. There had been so much love and gentleness in his gaze that her heart broke. _I don't make love to you because I want a baby, _he'd assured her._ I want a baby because I love you. _ Mary smiled at the memory, as she rested a hand to her belly. Deep down, she had always known she was pregnant all these months. No other explanation for her bodily changes would suffice. Her heart raced in anticipation; she could hardly wait to tell Francis. She quickly thanked the midwife for her service as she dashed to her and Francis's apartments.

* * *

Francis held Elizabeth's letter in his hands. He could feel his mother's eyes on him as he began to read the letter aloud. A cold wave of dread swept over him, and forbiddingly, his mind drifted to Mary. This would change everything between them, and for the worse, he knew.

_Mary,_

_It has been months since you came to me and we forged the alliance between our two countries, fighting against our common foe: France. I believe that now is the time to take action. France is weak and vulnerable. My French spies have reported various cases of the Black Death and how it has taken lives of thousands upon thousands, and how it has breached the walls of court. _

_I have replenished my own losses from the siege of Calais, and it has come to my attention that Scotland will need more strength if we are truly to fight this war against the French. I will provide you with the number of men you have now, but hundredfold and more than France could ever give you. Scotland will not be able to attack France unaided, but with our united forces, we will crush and conquer the French together. England will be saved, as will Scotland. I trust that you will keep your word in deserting your claim to my throne once this war is over. I know that many of the French believe you to be the true heir to my crown – but you will do well to remember the terms to our alliance if you want to save your nation._

_Should this letter fall into the wrong hands, I will not disclose when we shall attack. When you get this letter, burn it and write back to me as soon as you can._

_Elizabeth _

"I must tell Mary of this," he said. "I must tell her of Elizabeth's plans and our own. She has a right to know, Mother." _She will not forgive you, _his doubt whispered in the back of his mind.

"Tell Mary, and you will most certainly lose her forever," his mother warned. "She is devoted to Scotland entirely."

"How we feel about each other does not matter now, Mother. Should she choose to never forgive me –" Francis paused, and sighed forlornly. "—I'll let her go." He had always feared that it would come to this: their duties to their countries tearing them apart. She had been willing to destroy his dynasty for her country, and he saw no other choice than to crush England, even if it meant overpowering Scotland in the process. _An eye for an eye. _"She's doing what is best for Scotland. I am doing what is best for France." And without another word, he brushed past his mother, making his way to his and Mary's chambers.

* * *

"Mary? Mary?" Francis called, swinging the door open. He saw her then, lounging on their bed, wrapped about in her furs. Mary beamed when she saw him, and she beckoned him towards her. Francis drew towards her, taking in a deep breath. He knew she was naked beneath her furs, and everything in him wanted to take her in his arms and lose himself in her. "Mary, I need to tell you something –"

"And I need to tell you something as well, Francis," his wife countered. She was glowing, alight with joy, and Francis couldn't help but feel a stab of curiosity. He couldn't remember the last time he had seen her so absolutely joyous.

"What is it?" he asked, and Mary crawled over to him, rolling her shoulders backwards. Her furs slipped from her shoulders and down her arms, revealing her naked form. "I don't understand, Mary." She smiled, taking his hand and placing it on her belly. There was no mistaking the small bulge he felt underneath his palm. In that moment, Francis forgot about the war and what was at stake. There was nothing but himself, Mary, and their unborn child. "Y-you're pregnant?" he stammered.

"Yes, yes!" Mary cried. "I'm pregnant. Carmen is going to have a sibling to play with. I have a little prince inside me, Francis." Francis took her in his arms and passionately kissed her, pushing her back onto the bed.

"Make love to me," she murmured breathlessly, and Francis made love to her until they were both completely spent.

_I love you, Mary, _he thought afterwards as they lay in each other's arms. _I'm sorry. _


	12. Chapter Twelve: A Game of Thrones

"I still can't believe it myself," Mary said, stroking Francis' face. "I've been thinking of a name for him." They lie together in each other's embrace, exhausted from their lovemaking and glowing with bliss.

"Him? What makes you so certain we're having a boy?" Francis asked teasingly. "What if we're having a little princess instead, or perhaps a prince _and_ a princess?"

"Well, if it's a boy, I was thinking of…James. James Sebastian – for my brother…and for yours," his wife answered, and smiled. There was a light in her eyes that Francis had not seen since the day of their marriage, and his heart swelled. Mary was truly, truly happy – and he was going to take that happiness away from her once he told her of Elizabeth's letter and his plans to fight back against England.

"I like that," he said, caressing her bare back. "I like that very much." Francis smiled before granting her a kiss. "And what if it's a girl?" he added, and Mary chuckled.

"Eden," she replied. "Eden Valois." She pronounced it leisurely and purposely, and her beam appeared to shine even brighter than before, if possible. "I like the sound of that." She kissed him again, but he gently pushed her away before rising from the bed. "Francis, what troubles you? Talk to me." She sat upright, her eyes filled with concern. Francis bent down, reaching for Elizabeth's letter hidden beneath his trousers. He gave it to Mary, sitting down beside her on the bed.

"It's from Elizabeth," he began hesitantly as she unfolded the parchment. Mary glanced up at him from the letter once, an underlying anger in her stare. She said nothing as she began to read her cousin's words. Shock turned to anger and anger into fury as she set the letter down.

"How did you get this letter, Francis?" she demanded. "It was meant for me, not for you! Have you been spying on my correspondences?"

"No, Mary," he said, "but my mother has. I don't know how long she's been doing so, but…" He heaved a sigh. "Elizabeth is going to besiege France with the intention of conquest. I can't let her take my country – _our_ country – and make it a part of her kingdom. I won't. Mary, I'm sorry. I –"

Mary's glare was colder than ice. "_You unimaginable bastard_!" she hissed, and slapped him across the mouth.

"I'm sorry, Mary," Francis began slowly, "but I am only doing what is best for France. Just as you are doing what is best for Scotland." She slapped him again.

"You're willing to _destroy_ Scotland to save France!" she shouted. "Destroy Scotland, and you will most certainly lose me!" Tears of fury shone in her eyes. "Why did you just choose to tell me this just now, Francis? Why now?"

"Mary, I only learned of Elizabeth's plans hours ago," he said calmly. "I tried telling you as soon as my mother showed me the letter, but you told me that you are with child." Unconsciously, Mary protectively placed a hand over abdomen, contemplating his words. She slowly met his eyes, and Francis reached for her, gently touching her cheek. She did not recoil from his touch, but the rage in her eyes had dissipated. There was no longer fury in her eyes, but a sad understanding. His heart broke; they could never truly be happy together in their marriage, and not for lack of love. Duty came first, above all. _How much easier affairs would be if Mary and I didn't love each other! _The thought came to Francis's mind, unbidden, and he dashed it away as quickly as it had come. He loved Mary – his heart lie with her, and only her – and in spite of the political struggles they constantly faced, he wouldn't give anything in exchange for her and their marriage. She was his blessing, the light and love of his life.

"I understand why you're doing this, Francis," she said softly, leaning into his touch, "but I wish you didn't have to." She smiled sadly, and sighed, reaching for him and leaning their foreheads together, stroking his face. "I have to write Elizabeth back. You know I have to." Her voice was just above a whisper, and her face was wet with tears.

"Mary," he began. "Mary, please…"

"Shhh," she hushed him, and she leaned forward, gently pressing her lips to his. "You know that I love you, Francis, and I know that you love me, but…" She trailed off, unable to bring herself to continue. "_I'm sorry_."

"I understand," he murmured.

"I don't know what I'm going to do," confessed Mary, meeting his eyes. "If I agree to the attack, then I'm putting _you _in danger. If I oppose the attack…I've never known Elizabeth to stand down from a chance to strike down her enemies."

"You don't want her to attack France." It wasn't a question.

"No, I don't," she went on. "I know I have always put Scotland first – before you, before _France – _but things have changed now. She is not just attacking us here at the Louvre, but attacking _the country. _Scottish blood will be spilt and French and English and our countries will be at open war."

"Mary, are you certain you can trust Elizabeth?" Francis asked her. "I know she is your cousin, but you have staked your claim to her throne."

"I have relinquished any and all claim to the English throne, Francis," Mary reminded him. "I did it for Scotland's sake, and for England's. She would never have agreed to the alliance if I hadn't forsaken my claim."

"But do you think she is the rightful queen?" he challenged her. "Do you believe the throne is hers by rights?" Mary shook her head, and took his hand in hers.

"No, I do not," she said truthfully. "She is Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn's daughter. The throne does not belong to her." Henry and Anne's marriage had been annulled only two and a half years after Elizabeth had been born, and Anne herself had been executed. The Pope had thus declared her illegitimate. "It makes no matter now, Francis. I will _not_ declare myself for England again if I want to save Scotland. Elizabeth is ruthless when it comes to her right to the throne; there have been so many times when she has mercilessly cut down those who oppose her claim. I do not doubt she would have my head on a pike if I challenged her. The House of Stuart cannot afford to fight a war against the House of Tudor _and _the House of Valois. If I choose to oppose Elizabeth, I might as well sign my own death warrant." She sighed, and gently kissed him. Francis returned the kiss, deepening it as they fell back upon the bed, and time ceased to be as they shared love once more.

* * *

Mary reached over for her ink, quill and a piece of parchment. She looked once towards the door, checking to see if Francis or perhaps Catherine would enter, and shook her head. Francis had left their bedchambers after their lovemaking to make plans. _Battle plans, _she thought grimly. _Plans that may cause the downfall of my country if he manages to defeat England. _She knew that if worst came to worst, she would not hesitate to bring France to its knees. Francis would never forgive her if she did such a thing, and once, that thought had struck fear in her heart. Now, all she felt was a cold detachment. She brushed these thoughts away, dipping her quill in the ink and began to write.

_Elizabeth, _

_ I received your letter, and I regret to say that it was intercepted by Catherine de Medici. She has been spying on all of my correspondences. For how long, I cannot say – but that is not important at the moment. Things are growing tense here in France, and with every day that passes, a feeling of dread comes over me that I know cannot be dashed away. _

_ You proposed that we besiege France. I thank you for the men you have bestowed me, but I am afraid I cannot agree to the attack. We cannot risk open war. The people have been openly revolting. In Scotland, madness seized the commoners as they screamed for French blood. Here in France, I am hated by the people for breaking the Auld Alliance and turning to England for aid. They are already plotting my demise, and in England as well as France, the people consider me the true heiress to your throne. I have no intention of challenging your claim to England, if that is what you fear. Heed my words, cousin, and do not attack France. _

_Mary _

Mary set her quill down and looked over her correspondence. She had purposely omitted the revelation of her pregnancy, for Francis's words had reached her. _My husband was right in that I can't trust Elizabeth, not entirely. She still sees me as her enemy, and if she knew I carry Francis's child…I cannot bear to imagine what she would do. _Her claim to the English throne was strong, she knew. The marriage of Henry and Anne was illegal; by all rights, Elizabeth was a bastard. The throne would never pass on to an illegitimate child – and Henry Valois had done everything in his power to try to claim England for himself. _Including putting me on the throne._ Mary sighed and quickly dressed herself. She grabbed the letter and made to leave the room. When she opened the door, she jumped out of her skin when she saw Catherine, standing in the doorway. Her surprise gave way to anger.

"What have you been doing, Mary?" Catherine demanded.

"I could ask the same of you," Mary spat, and stormed past her, brushing her shoulder. "I know you've been watching my correspondences, Catherine. You've read my cousin's recent letter to me, too." She glared at her, her temper flaring. "Do you truly distrust me so? Why intercept my letters?"

"You are doing the Devil's bidding," the wiser queen said heatedly, grabbing her wrist, "with these conspiracies with Elizabeth. Pray tell, do you intend to let France burn? Do you intend to let _your country _burn while Scotland rises from the ashes of war? You forget yourself, dear. _France_ is just as much as your country now as Scotland is." Furiously, Mary wrenched herself from Catherine's grasp. "I want you gone, Mary," Catherine went on. "Leave France. Board the next ship out of France, and return to Scotland. You shall _not_ take Francis with you as your consort."

"Francis is my husband," Mary snarled, "and the father of my child. Do you think it is wise to keep him parted from his unborn child? The heir to the French throne?" She relished Catherine's shocked expression. "I realize my duties to France, but I also realize my duties to Scotland. I am Mary of the House of Stuart_, Mary I, by the Grace of God, Queen of England, Scotland, France and Ireland, Defender of the Faith_. I would advise you not to cross me again, Catherine. I may be a Stuart, but I have the blood of a Tudor running through my veins."

"And you seem to have the cold heart of a Tudor as well." Catherine spat out the name of Tudor as though it gave a bitter taste in her mouth. "You truly are Elizabeth's cousin. You must be mad to presume I would let you walk out of my son's bed with a letter to the enemy in your hand."

Mary laughed derisively. "And you must be mad to try to intercept this letter when I may have just saved your country," she snapped, "for the time being. Do not give me just cause to change my mind." She spoke with a fierce vehemence. Was there nobody she could trust here at court, except for her husband? Francis, out of everyone, had proved to be the most trustworthy – the most _loyal_, and not merely because he was her husband. He genuinely cared for her, and his love was true. Their marriage was not just based from politics as it had been when it'd been arranged. Mary had once believed that Francis's love for her would be enough, to know that he would stand by her side always – but she had been a girl. A girl with girlish thoughts, innocent to the world and naïve. She was a queen now, with a hardened heart and a country to look after.

"You wouldn't _dare_!" Catherine cried angrily. "I know you, Mary. You love Francis too much to do such a thing."

"You are right in that regard. I do love my husband," said Mary callously, "but if there is anything I have learned during my time here at court, it is that love is irrelevant to people like us. I know that it is impossible to balance love and duty. There is always a choice that must be made, and for that choice, there is a reckoning. I will do everything in my power to preserve Scotland. You know that, as does my husband."

"You declared yourself the Queen of England merely moments ago. Declare war on Elizabeth, and may God grant mercy on your soul," said Catherine darkly. "I thought once that you could help France, but I see now how terribly wrong I was. You have brought nothing here but ruin. Go back to Scotland, Mary, while you still can. I was right to try to keep you away from my son. I should never have wed Francis to a Stuart bitch." Mary slapped her, and Catherine let out a dark chuckle. "You have made yourself another enemy, my dear."

"I am surrounded by foes no matter where I go. You know that – and God grant mercy on your soul if you _ever_ cross me again."

* * *

"You're actually going to do it," Christian de Guise mused. "You're actually going to fight against the English _and_ the Scottish. Does my niece know of your plans?" His tone was contemptuous as he leered at Francis. "Mary will hate you for this."

"Mary already knows of my plans," Francis said coolly. "She understands that I'm doing what is best for France. I don't know if she forgives me, but it doesn't matter." The duke let out a chuckle.

"Oh, but it does. It does to you," he countered. "You love my niece, and I know she loves you. You should know by now, love has no place in politics. It is poison. It causes you to make rash decisions, and those decisions will cost you everything you hold dear. It may have just cost you Mary, but as you said, it doesn't matter. You are the newly crowned king of France, _boy_." He scoffed at Francis's glare of hatred and disgust. "Don't be so stubborn. You have more important matters at hand than how your wife's feelings about you and your willingness to bring down Scotland in order to save France, such as the impending invasion from England."

_He's right and you know it, _a small voice in the back of Francis's mind whispered. _You will always have to put France above Mary. You are the king now. _"Elizabeth plans to invade France," he began. "When, I cannot say, but we need to be ready. My mother intercepted a letter from her that was meant for Mary, so we are one step ahead of our enemy. She intends to correspond with Elizabeth, posing as Mary. Elizabeth means to conquer France and make it part of her kingdom, and she has given Mary with enough troops to completely overrun our forces in the field. Over eight thousand men fighting for Scotland – and another hundred thousand for England. We are outnumbered, regardless of what happens. To attack England now would be a suicide mission; we would be slaughtered. We are gradually rebuilding our armies for the impending siege, whenever that may be. It's been months since the plague ravaged the palace. We lost many good men, but that does not mean that France is defenseless."

"How do you mean?" Christian pressed.

"Mary formed an alliance with England to save Scotland," said Francis, "and I do not mean to let France fight this war unaided. I will write to King Philip II of Spain, and propose an alliance. He has a multitude of warships – an advantage that Elizabeth does not have. Elizabeth has thousands upon thousands of men, but with Spain behind us, we will have the upper hand over both England and Scotland."

"King Philip opposes Elizabeth's claim to the throne," the duke informed him. "It would appear that Spain and France both share a common enemy. I'm surprised at your willingness to go to war against your wife, to be frank."

"Mary has made her decision, and I have made mine," he explained gravely. "She put France at risk, and as much as I love her, I will not let her destroy my country."

"Spoken like a true king, boy," sneered Christian. "Let us hope that the crown does not do queer things to the head beneath it, the way it did your father before you. It got him killed in the end." Something in Francis stirred at these words. How much did Christian know about his father's death? _He warned my father of my mother and Mary's attempt on his life, _he remembered. _Who knows what else he knows? _He bit his tongue; it would not be wise to ask any questions regarding how he knew of his father's murder.

"I am not the man my father was," he said frostily, "nor do I want to be." Francis turned his back to the duke. "I shall write to King Philip come nightfall, and pray he agrees to fight against our common foe." Without another word, he swept away, plagued by doubt. He had never trusted Christian de Guise, nor would he ever trust him. _He may be Mary's uncle, but that does not guarantee us his trust. _His mind wandered, and found Mary's brother James. He too shared power in Scotland, though he was nowhere near as powerful as Mary. His group of Scottish lords allegedly fought for the Catholic cause – _Mary's _cause: to form harmony between the Catholics and the Protestants – but he had shown his true self long ago by enticing his sister into returning to Scotland so he could murder her at sea. Francis had no other choice but to lock Mary in the tower to stay her hand. The House of Stuart was indeed filled with vipers, he realized. None could be trusted; he could only pray Mary wouldn't misplace her trust.

His thoughts were interrupted when he saw his mother making her way to him. Her eyes were ablaze with a cold rage and determination. "Francis, we need to talk," she said, "about your wife."

"What of Mary, Mother?" Francis queried warily.

"Mary cannot be trusted," she explained. "I caught her leaving your bed with a letter intended for Elizabeth. She claims that she may have just saved France from England's wrath, but I do not mean to take any chances. I pray you will do the same."

_Not take any chances? With Mary? _"Speak plainly," he snapped. "What the hell did you do? Did you harm Mary?"

"Harm Mary, I did not," his mother went on. "The only thing that has kept me from slipping poison into her wine is you. France and Scotland are already at war with one another. Mary is on her way back to Scotland, even as we speak."

* * *

"That's impossible," Mary said. "I've forsaken my claim to the English throne, and I have no reason to consolidate my declaration." _And I have every reason to, and every reason not to. _"When did you see this, Nostradamus? And why are you telling me this just now?" The ship she was to board awaited her, resting at port. French court loomed in the distance, and she steeled her heart against the pain of leaving Francis behind. _Please forgive me, _she prayed silently.

"I saw it when you donned the English coat-of-arms at King Henry's tourney, Your Grace," Nostradamus explained. "I saw Elizabeth sign your death warrant, and I saw you lose your head with almost all of England watching. Some fates can be changed; Francis's fate was altered when Clarissa died. Yours can change as well, but only if you choose not to take England."

_The throne of England is mine by rights, _she thought, _but there is no mistaking the accuracy in his visions. He foresaw Aylee's death, and Francis's – but by some miracle, my husband's fate has changed. _"It is my risk to take, Nostradamus," she said. "I am the rightful queen of England."

"You would willfully leave your husband for the throne. I have seen your doom, Mary Stuart, and for your own sake, do not pursue this path. It will bring you naught but pain," warned the prophet.

"I fear you misunderstand," Mary said snappily. "I am not voyaging to England, but back to Scotland. I do not intend on taking my rightful place on the English throne. It has become too perilous for me here in France, and I cannot yet go to England. I carry Francis's child, and I do not trust Elizabeth with the news. I know she does not entirely trust me, and I know that she cannot be fully trusted either."

"I pray that you will be cautious in all that you do," said Nostradamus. "I foresaw Henry Valois's death long before it came to pass, Your Grace:

'_The young lion will overcome the older one, _

_On the field of combat in a single battle; _

_He will pierce his eyes through a golden cage,_

_Two wounds made one, then he dies a cruel death_.'

I urge you not to make the choices that he made, Mary. He led himself to the grave." Mary met his eyes, a surge of protectiveness over her husband coursing through her. "I am no villain, I promise you," he assured her.

"If you foresaw Henry's demise, then you know who killed him," she said cruelly. "You know that it was my husband who rode into that tourney."

"Yes," admitted Nostradamus, "I know it was Francis. I knew it would be him." Mary could find no room in her heart for sympathy for the seer. Would he tell all of the realm that their king had murdered his predecessor – his own father? She had not yet killed an innocent, and she only hoped that she would not have to do so to protect Francis. _Who am I becoming? _she asked herself. _I will not kill an innocent man. _

"Are you going to divulge this knowledge to anyone?" she demanded.

"Never, Your Grace," he swore. "There are some secrets that should never be revealed, but carried to the grave. Francis's role in his father's demise will remain hidden from the kingdom, I swear to you. It's time you went, my queen. Godspeed to you." Mary began to make her way up to the ship, and when her feet touched the docks, the ramp was pulled up and slowly, the ship began to move away from the harbor. She felt her heart break and tears burned in her eyes, gently spilling down her cheeks. How she longed for Francis! How she longed to feel his arms around her, to feel the tenderness of his lips on hers! _Francis, my love, my husband, _she thought sorrowfully, _I love you and I never wished to leave you – but I must. _

* * *

Francis swung the door open, hoping against hope that Mary would be there in their bedchambers waiting for him, and his heart sank. The room was vacant; there was no sign of her anywhere. On the bed, there was a folded piece of parchment. Hurriedly, he strode to the bed and unfolded the document. Indeed, it was written in Mary's hand. Her script was unmistakable, but it was clear that she had been in a great hurry. Some lines had been crossed out, and others incomplete, as if she had been unable to finish her thoughts. He couldn't help but think the worst. What had his mother said or done to her that had sent her fleeing from France without as much as a warning? He dashed the evil thought away as he read her memorandum.

_Husband Francis, _

_I'm sorry for-__ By the time this letter reaches you, I will be on a ship returning to Scotland. It has become much too dangerous for me to stay in France, and I have made myself another enemy in the form of your mother. __The House of Stuart and the House of Valois were never meant to remain friends, and fate would see that French and Scottish blood is— _

_I never wanted it to come to this, but I have no other option. I cannot stay in France, nor can I sail to England, where I would be scrutinized by Elizabeth and my pregnancy would surely be revealed not just to her, but my other enemies as well. I won't risk the life of our babe in this war. I can understand why Elizabeth remains the Virgin Queen, and it is for this reason alone: the lives of unborn heirs to the throne are always at risk. Your enemies will try to make you miscarry the babe, and it is only a solace to them if you die with the child as well. I will do everything in my power to keep our little prince safe inside my womb until God wills him into the world, just as I will do all that I can to temper Scotland. __My mother remains imprisoned, and she shall face the headsman upon my return. __I have played this game of thrones my entire life, my husband, as have you. You were raised as the Dauphin of France, born to ascend to your father's throne once his time came to an end. I was crowned as Queen of Scotland upon my birth, evading my enemies ever since I was a lass, soon to be the Queen of France once I came of age and we were wed. I am forever grateful for the time we have spent together, growing in love, and I can only hope that we will see each other again someday. _

_Do not follow me to Scotland, I beg of you. You have your responsibilities to France as king. I will not stand in your way __and let your love for me endanger your country__. I am Queen of France, and I recognize that my actions have put both of our countries in a vulnerable position. The Catholics and the Protestants have been openly fighting; I hear of the vile killings and how men and priests and popes, even blameless children, are burned alive as if they are witches. I will not stand for it. This is not God's will. These religious wars are not God's will. __I cannot say the same for the war between France and Scotland— _

_What shall follow once I arrive in Scotland, I do not know, but I do know this: we are but on separate paths. It is in God's hands, whether or not we shall meet again, but I pray that our next meeting will not be because I have been doomed to die at Elizabeth's command. I love you, my husband, and may the Lord shine his light upon you always. _

_Your wife before God, _

_Mary_

He couldn't believe it. Mary was gone, and his mother had been the one to drive her out of France. Every instinct in his body was screaming at him to follow his wife to Scotland, but his mind told him differently. _Mary left for her kingdom in Scotland because she knows she belongs there. Her people need her. Your people need their king. It would not do to abandon them in such dark times. _Francis knew that he must write to Philip of Spain and build the bridge towards an alliance, or let his kingdom fall. The House of Habsburg was known to be an honorable house; it was not like the House of Tudor, filled with treacherous vipers hidden amongst the roses, nor like the House of Stuart, losing influence in Scotland and fighting amongst themselves. Marie de Guise was condemned to die and James, Earl of Moray, had all but proven that he fought for a different queen by trying to lure Mary to Scotland so he could murder her. Mary had never believed the allegations against her half-brother, but Francis knew better. The Stuart-Valois alliance was ended, and France's only chance of victory lie in a Valois-Habsburg pact. Of course, the treaty could not be solidified with a marriage – Francis was already a man wed, and he had no legitimate heirs to the throne that he could marry off to one of Philip's sons or daughters. Philip would never consent to marrying one of his scions to a bastard, even if Carmen was of age to marry.

Francis went to the desk and reached for a blank piece of parchment and his quill, dipping it in ink and he began to write. _And so begins the War of the Four Kingdoms. _


	13. Chapter Thirteen: Stuart and Tudor

"_Hail Mary, by the Grace of God, Queen of France and Scotland!" _Mary stepped out from the carriage, Scottish court looming before her. She could feel her people staring at her, but she looked straight ahead, her face a stone mask as she slowly made her way inside the castle. _They expect me to break down, _she realized. _I have condemned my own mother to die. _She would not weep, for she was a queen and queens do not weep. Marie de Guise would face the headsman come evening, and Mary would have one less foe to conquer. She entered the throne room, and stopped in her tracks suddenly when another fanfare exploded. The herald sang of another's coming, and Mary's blood turned to ice.

"_Hail Elizabeth, by the Grace of God, Queen of England!" _Fear struck itself in her heart like a flash of lightning. What possible reasons could Elizabeth have for coming to Scotland? _Scotland and England are friends, _Mary reassured herself. _England's fate is bound to that of my country. She can't cut me down even if she wanted to. _If anything, Elizabeth Tudor was calculating and manipulative, but she was a queen as well. She cherished her country's safety above all else, as any queen would, and Mary knew she would do nothing to jeopardize England. Mary turned around, and the castle doors opened as Elizabeth swept into the palace. All of Scottish court was entranced by her, but all she could feel was an unspeakable fear. Her hand went to the soft swell of her belly, as if to shield her unborn babe from Elizabeth's view. _She will not have my little prince, _she swore to herself. _She will not. _Her cousin's gaze swept across the room, taking in her surroundings, and finally, she found Mary. Mary dropped her hand immediately, and forced a smile.

"Mary," Elizabeth said formally. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"Likewise, cousin," she responded tightly. "I have some affairs to see to, but I don't intend on returning to France. Why are you here, Elizabeth?"

"I'm here to speak with you about the alliance between our two countries," the Tudor queen began, "for it is a matter that should not be discussed in letters, especially now that Catherine de Medici has been intercepting them. I received your last letter in regards to the possibility of besieging France." She offered Mary a smile. "Walk with me, coz." Mary obliged as she and Elizabeth began to make their way out of the throne room and into the halls.

"You know why I can't agree to the attack," began Mary slowly. _I will not put Francis's life in danger, nor the life of our son. _

"Why yes, I do know. You're afraid," Elizabeth said harshly. "Of what are you so afraid? Bloodshed? War? If you're afraid of open war, Mary, it's too late for that. You're a _queen_, not a maiden on her wedding night. Have the French softened you, cousin? I would like to believe not. You've spent almost all of your life in their court."

"What does my time spent in France have to do with any of this?" _Please God, she cannot know of my pregnancy. Please, no. _Her pregnancy alone strengthened her claim to the English throne, for Elizabeth was a woman unwedded, not yet bedded, and without an heir.

"_Everything_, Mary," she spat. "France is the enemy – the common enemy that we now share, and if you do not have the stomach to see French blood spilt, then perhaps you are not the queen I thought you were. I have no qualms about spilling Scottish blood if I find it necessary."

"_I defied my husband by coming to you_!" The words came tumbling out, and Mary found she couldn't stop them. "I – " _I carry my husband's child, _she almost said. _I am the mother of the new dauphin, the king of France after Francis! _"Scotland is fighting this war against France because of the treaty forged between our countries. I came to you willingly. I abandoned the English throne –_ your _throne – so I might protect Scotland."

"You will do well to remember that I am Queen of England," Elizabeth hissed. "I know that almost half of Europe wants to see you on my throne; they see me as the renounced bastard of Henry Tudor and Anne Boleyn." _As do I, _thought Mary to herself. "King Henry de Valois made it known that wanted you sitting my throne. He proclaimed it to the world after Calais, the madman. Heed my words, coz. If you dare consolidate your claim to England, which you say you have forsaken, I will end you and I will see to it that Scotland is turned into _nothing but ashes_."

"God will it that it will never come to that, Elizabeth," said Mary brusquely. "I recognize that England is yours, and I recognize also that France is my country too. _That _is why I cannot, will not, consent to the attack."

"Spare me the hollow declarations of commitment. I know your devotion to France is false, just as your husband's devotion to Scotland is meaningless. You are wedded to a _French_ king, Mary. Your husband will always put France first, even if it means putting Scotland in danger. If you are blind to that, then you are a greater fool than I thought."

"Don't speak ill of my husband!"

"The French truly have softened you, coz," Elizabeth said, and shook her head. "It is no secret that you love your husband. I hear things."

"What kinds of things do you hear?" Mary asked warily. _If she knows that I bear Francis's child… _She could scarcely bring herself to finish the thought.

"I heard of how you fled from the Louvre, abandoned your betrothal to the dauphin and arranged it so you could wed his bastard half-brother instead," her cousin said matter-of-factly. "Rumors told that you had shared your bed with the bastard and gotten yourself with child. Tell me and tell me true. What does that say about you and your promises?"

"Elizabeth, that is in the past – "

"I have spies in French court, Mary," she went on sharply. "My little birds tell me all. I am not oblivious to what happens in France." The callousness in her tone kept Mary silent. "I know several things, some of which you are keen on hiding from me. I know that no matter how many times your husband fucks you, his seed never seems to flourish and grow inside of you...but that has changed of late. You're pregnant with the king's son."

"What of it?" demanded Mary, and Elizabeth slapped her.

"You do not think that I know, but I do. One of my little birds overheard your confrontation with Catherine de Medici, and she heard every word. You want the English throne, Mary." She hurled the words at her, and Mary felt her own temper spark. If anything, Elizabeth Tudor was a force to be reckoned with when angered.

"You're naught but a bastard," she snarled. "A bastard with no true claim to the throne!"

"_A bastard who can lay waste to Scotland without blinking_." Without another word, Elizabeth swept past her and Mary placed a hand protectively over belly. _Nowhere is safe for me, _she thought grimly. _If I am in danger, so is my little prince. _She felt tears of horror burn in her eyes, steadily streaming down her cheeks. Coming to Scotland was a terrible mistake; her son was in danger, and she couldn't return to France. To sail to England would be delivering her son to the wolves. She couldn't help but long for Francis; he was the only one she could trust, aside from her brother. _James will understand, _she thought to herself. _He has to. He is my brother. _

* * *

Mary hurried to the Privy Council chambers, where she knew he would be. She swung the door open, breathless. "James! James, I need your help," she blurted. Her brother looked up from his studies before waving his hand in dismissal to the other lords.

"What is it, Mary?" he questioned. "What's the matter?" He approached her, and Mary realized she was still weeping. Hastily, she wiped her tears away before speaking.

"I'm pregnant with Francis's child," she explained, "and Elizabeth – she knows. She knows that my pregnancy alone threatens her claim to England. I need to protect my son." Something flickered in Moray's eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it'd appeared. "Please. Help me."

"How long have you been with child, Mary?" Moray pressed her calmly.

"Four months, _why does it matter_?" she screeched. "The future king grows in my womb and I am surrounded by enemies. I am not safe in France, and I am not safe here as long as Elizabeth remains in court. She is a threat to me and she is a threat to my son."

"Elizabeth is not your enemy, sweet sister," he reminded her. "The Stuart-Tudor alliance is crucial to a Scottish victory in this war, especially now that Elizabeth's spies report that France has turned to Spain. They say that he plans to use the strength of the House of Habsburg to conquer the French and English forces." The cold hand of fear gripped Mary's throat, and for several moments, she couldn't breathe. Elizabeth was hell-bent on attacking France; if she went through with the attack and Philip accepted Francis's alliance proposal, it would be open war between the four kingdoms.

"What makes you so certain of that? Of Elizabeth being a friend to Scotland and to me?" Mary challenged him.

"If she wanted you dead, you'd be dead," said Moray simply, and brushed past her without another word. She couldn't believe it. It was as if he had not a single care in the world what happened to her and her son! Did he not understand what was at risk? Did he even care? _I don't know if my friends are my enemies, or if my enemies are my friends. _Francis was beyond her reach, preparing for war. Her mother would face the headsman in merely hours. Elizabeth saw her as a threat to her claim to England, and it was only a matter of time before she broke the alliance and turned against Scotland. _I was fully aware of the risks of allying myself with her, _she thought darkly, _and my son. _If Elizabeth did so much as attempt to harm her babe or Francis, Mary knew that it would be over. The treaty between Scotland and England would come to an end, and she would bring down hell upon her cousin.

* * *

"_What the hell is wrong with you, Mother_?" Francis stormed past his mother, his rage stirring within him like a tempest. What madness had befallen her to make an enemy of Mary? "She carries my son, and she is encircled by foes in Scotland!"

"Believe it or not, Francis, Mary is the enemy now," she said heatedly. "She became our enemy the moment she turned to England for aid. I know you don't want to believe it, but it's true. _Your wife is no longer a friend to France._"

"She is still my wife!" he shouted. "I love her!" He raked a hand through his hair, trying to regain his temper. Now was not the time to act the boy. "_Damn you_!" _You can't go after her, _his reason told him, _for France needs you. She begged you not to follow her. _His heart, however, told him differently. _She's your wife, and you need to be there for her. You must protect your son. _"Have you any idea what you've done?"

"If you expect me to apologize for sending away Mary, I will not," his mother said briskly. "Have you sent the raven to King Philip?"

"Yes, I have." Francis's voice was clipped with ire. "If all goes well, the Valois-Habsburg pact will be ratified." He turned his back to her, wanting nothing more than to leave her presence. His fury was like a storm raging within him, and only Mary was his harbor in the tempest. All he could think of was her safety and that of their unborn son. He knew that she would seek guidance and counsel from Moray; the man was her half-brother. She trusted him entirely, and all Francis could do was pray that she would not misplace her trust again. He had no specific destination his mind as he let his feet carry him where they would. His mind was utterly consumed by fear and anger: fear for Mary's life and that of their unborn son, and anger towards his mother for sending her away. How could he have let it come to this? There was no longer peace between France and Scotland, and it was only a matter of time before England attacked. His mother's banishment of Mary could very well be the one thing that guaranteed no hope of perhaps rekindling peace between their countries.

_Perhaps it is for the better that Mary is in Scotland, _a voice in the back of his mind purred. _One of your own people attempted to assassinate her, and almost succeeded in the attempt. Do you really want her to be in a place where all want to see her dead? Do you want her to be in a place where she is most vulnerable to her enemies? _Francis shook his head. He knew it was selfish of him, but he had to know that she was safe. Not for one moment did he trust Moray with her. He couldn't shake the feeling that Mary had made a grave mistake in returning to Scotland, with everything that was happening.

_I love you, Mary. I am not going to let our enemies harm you or our child. _

* * *

The execution of Marie de Guise was not a large affair, and yet, all of Scottish court was present. Mary stood behind the headsman as Marie slowly made her way up to the block, her face a stone mask. Elizabeth was present too; Mary could feel her penetrating stare, and it was all she could do not to squirm in discomfort. All she could feel in her heart was rage and hatred towards her mother. She hated that she had signed her own mother's death warrant, and a small part of her hated her mother for turning against Scotland. Her rage threatened to consume her, and yet, she was utterly placid as her mother knelt down and put her neck on the block.

"You are making a grave mistake, daughter," Marie warned. "_You do not want to do this, Mary_." Mary felt the sting of tears in her eyes, and her vision blurred.

"_The only mistake I made was entrusting you with my country_." Mary's voice was harsh and brittle when she spoke, for she did not want her mother to hear the tears in her voice. To the headsman, she ordered, "Do it." The headsman raised his sword high above his head, and brought it down upon her mother's neck. Marie's lifeblood splattered, soaking the ground and coating the headsman. Mary closed her eyes and she felt the first tears slowly making her way down her cheeks. She made herself open her eyes as the headsman reached down, taking her mother's head by the hair and holding it out for all to see.

"_GOD SAVE THE QUEEN REGENT AND THOSE WHO DARE DEFY THE REALM_!"


	14. Chapter Fourteen: Breaking Point

"_GOD SAVE THE QUEEN REGENT AND THOSE WHO DARE DEFY THE REALM_!" the headsman roared, and flung the severed head of Marie de Guise to the ground. Mary couldn't hear the roar of the crowd over the pounding in her ears, tears relentlessly pouring down her cheeks. It was done. Her mother was dead, and she would never hurt Scotland again. She left the courtyard, her sorrow threatening to engulf her completely. By all rights, she knew, she should not mourn a traitor. She was a queen, and yet, she felt like a girl – a girl who had sentenced her own mother to death without blinking.

_ My mother isn't the first to die for her crimes against my country, _thought Mary darkly. _She won't be the last. _She dashed to her privy chambers, slamming the door behind her as choked sobs wracked her body. Had she done the right thing by executing her mother? _She was a traitor to the realm, _she told herself. _You would have to execute her regardless, even if she wasn't your mother. _Her thoughts only made her weep all the more and she tried to muffle her sobs with her hand. Nobody could know that she mourned for a conspirator. Her heart was slowly becoming one of steel; perhaps it was better that way. Death was at every corner; it had devastated the Louvre, taking Bash and countless others, and now the fates had conspired against her, forcing her to sign her own mother's death warrant. What else did the fates have in store for her? Were they conspiring to take her son – her little prince, her little James – from her? Just the mere presence of her son flourishing on her womb threatened Elizabeth, and she had every reason to strike back against her.

A choked gasp escaped her, and Mary's hand fell to her belly. She stroked the soft swell where her son grew inside her; with each day that passed, he grew stronger. He would be a true king, a good king, to France after his father's time came to an end. She would rule as queen regent until he was of age, just as her mother had done. "James," she murmured. "My little James." She smiled sadly, and suddenly, a fanfare pierced the air. _Who else has come to court? _

"_Hail François, by the Grace of God, King of France and Scotland!" _the herald sang. Mary's heart sank in her chest, but she couldn't fight her sense of relief as she rushed to the balcony. There was no mistaking her husband as Francis stepped out from his carriage. The people bowed before their king, and she couldn't help but smile through her tears. Francis looked like a true king in that moment. Mary's heart swelled with her love for him. He was Francis de Valois, the king of France and protector of the realm, her husband, her lover, _her _king. It seemed an eternity before his eyes found hers.

"Francis, my husband," she whispered.

* * *

There were no words to be spoken as Francis's lips came down upon hers. Mary threw her arms around him, all thoughts banished from her mind as the coals of passion fanned and flamed between her and her husband. She wanted nothing more than to feel Francis's touch, to feel the softness of his kiss, and the strength and passion and vigorousness when he moved inside her.

"Francis, why…why did you come back?" she asked him breathlessly.

"I had to see if you were okay, Mary," Francis whispered, and he silenced her words with another kiss, and they fell back upon the bed. Time ceased to be between them as their naked bodies joined together as one. Mary met her husband's passion with her own; her pregnancy, she realized, seemed to awaken his desire for her, for his lovemaking left her completely spent afterwards. Her womanhood throbbed from the fire of Francis's passion, and her hair and body were wet with sweat. She rested her head above his heart, their limbs entangled with one another, as he tenderly stroked her bare back.

"You didn't have to come back for me," she said quietly, lifting her head to meet his eyes.

"Yes, I did," Francis murmured. "I had to know that you were safe."

"I'm never truly safe from my enemies. You know that. Elizabeth is here, and I don't know who to trust. My brother doesn't appear to give a damn what happens to me or our son and my mother is dead." Mary shook her head. "You can't stay here, Francis. France needs you more than Scotland does. Scotland needs me now, more than ever, and I am all that stands between Elizabeth and an English assault on the French."

"I would like to speak with Elizabeth myself," said her husband. "I am the king of France."

"Francis, no. _No._ I'm not going to bring you into my conflict with my cousin," Mary cried, aghast. "This is between me and Elizabeth. She already thinks of me as a threat and a rival to her throne, and for all I know, she is already plotting against me. She knows that I carry your son, and I will not let you put yourself in danger. I will not put our family in danger." She took his hand in hers and kissed his knuckles. "I love you, Francis, but I need to do this alone. I have to. If Elizabeth ever hurt you or our James, I know I would never forgive myself. Your duties lie with France, as they have always. You can't protect me and fight for your nation at the same time, husband."

"Mary," Francis began, "I love you. You are my wife before God and the mother to my son. I won't let anyone hurt you, not even your cousin. I'm not afraid of Elizabeth."

"You should be," said Mary bluntly. _I'm terrified of her and the danger she poses to our son. _"If anything happened to you or our babe…Francis, I could not live with myself. I couldn't bear it. I'm not putting you both in danger." She sighed. "Once James is born, I will bring him back to you in France. I don't want him within arms' reach of Elizabeth and my foes here."

"Do you intend on returning to France?"

"I can't go back to the Louvre, Francis. Not after what has happened," she went on. "I have made an enemy out of your mother, and the people hate me for allying with England. I need to stay here, for the sake of my people and our son." She smiled sadly. "You and I are going down our separate ways, but I promise you, I will return to you and our James." She gently kissed him, and he raked his hand through her hair. "Francis," she said softly, "do you think it is too late for peace between me and Elizabeth?"

"How do you mean?" her husband asked.

"She considers me a threat to her claim to the Crown," she said. "I consider her a threat to our son and our family, and even a greater threat to Scotland. She has all the cause in the world to declare war on Scotland, but I do not think she will take that course of action since our countries are bound to one another. If one falls, so does the other."

"You know that I will stand by you regardless of your decision, Mary." Mary managed a weak smile before she continued. "You're my _queen_."

"I'm considering reconsolidating my claim to England," she told him. _Nostradamus warned me not to take England, but this is my risk to take. _

"Mary…"

"Elizabeth and I walk a fragile line, Francis, and sooner or later, she is going to take action and someone is going to get hurt because of her. I can't let that happen. I know that there will be war if I reassert my claim, but it's too late for that now. It's now or never."

"_Declare war on your cousin and she will have your head_," Francis warned her. "Don't do it, Mary. For the love I know you bear me and our son, _do not_."

"If I do this," she said reassuringly, "it is because I love you, Francis. I'll be okay." _I would rather die than Elizabeth touches my family. _"I do not plan on taking action until after our son is born. To restate my claim to the throne now would put him in too much danger, more than he is already." Mary gently pulled herself out of her husband's embrace, climbing out of the bed and making her way to the window, where she would look out upon her country. She could feel his eyes on her as she moved, and she couldn't help but look back at him over her shoulder. Francis, too, rose from the bed and she let out a sigh of contentment as he wrapped his arms around her from behind. He stroked her hair that had fallen upon her breast, gently pushing it back, leaving her neck exposed.

"Mary," he murmured. She tilted her head to the side, as he began to kiss her. He kissed her cheek, her collarbone and her neck, his hands fondling her breasts before falling down to the tenderness of her belly, where their child flourished and grew. His lips slowly trailed down her back, his hands firmly planted on her waist. Mary felt her own passion rekindle itself, a small moan escaping her.

"Francis," she sighed. "We shouldn't…not now." Her body betrayed her words, for Francis's touch set her skin afire. "Scotland and…and France –" Her words were cut off when he turned her around to face him. Their eyes met, and Mary could hear her heart pounding in her chest. She reached for him slowly, gently touching his cheek before placing her hand on his firm, muscular chest. Her thoughts trailed off despite herself, and she ceased to think as her husband's lips met hers. Francis wrapped his arms around her waist possessively, and lifted her into his arms. Mary let out a small gasp, not once breaking their kiss, and wrapped her legs around his waist as he carried her back to the bed. She forgot all her troubles as they became one once more, the fruit of desire ripening between them as they shared its sweet, sensual taste.

* * *

"Francis?" A whimper of contentment escaped Mary's lips, her eyes fluttering open, and she reached forward for her husband, only to feel the softness of the silken sheets and mattress. Had he left her while she slumbered? Why? _What could be of utmost importance that would have him leave me after making love to me? _she asked herself. She rose from the bed and dressed herself, before leaving her apartments and making her way to the throne room. There, she saw the people buzzing about. Francis and Elizabeth were nowhere to be seen. She began to walk up to the throne, and the crowd dispersed for their queen, immediately falling silent upon seeing her. In that moment, she was not a wife and a lover, but a queen, as she slowly sat down upon the throne.

"I know that much talk has surrounded the possibility of an heir to the throne," she began, her voice echoing throughout the room. "From the day of my marriage to Francis de Valois, I have been urged time and time again to give him a son, a prince, the future king of France and Scotland. To Henry de Valois, an heir would secure my claim to England, for he conspired to kill his son, my husband, and wed me in his place so he could rule France, Scotland, and England – but he is dead now, and my husband is your king. _A prince grows inside me – your future king, a Prince of Wales. _When the time is right, I _will _take my rightful place on the throne of England and I will bring down Hell upon the Tudor queen!" The people roared and cheered, and Mary continued over their screaming, "I WILL RULE ENGLAND AND MY SON WILL BE YOUR KING ONCE MY TIME IS OVER! THE TUDOR DYNASTY WILL BE NOTHING BUT ASHES, AND A NEW AGE WILL DAWN! THE AGE OF STUART AND VALOIS." Her heart was racing in her chest, adrenaline pumping through her veins. She rose slowly from the throne, all her fear forgotten, looking towards her people.

"HAIL HER MAJESTY MARY STUART, QUEEN OF SCOTS AND ENGLAND!" the people shouted in unison. "HAIL HER MAJESTY QUEEN MARY, THE TRUE QUEEN OF ENGLAND! HAIL HER MAJESTY QUEEN MARY, THE TRUE QUEEN OF ENGLAND!" Gradually, their cry built to a chant, and it thundered throughout the hall. The guards began to pound the butts of their spears onto the floor in rhythm to the mantra. _I have won their allegiance and their hearts, _she thought to herself, _and Elizabeth's enmity._

* * *

"You must be a true fool to think I'll just leave my cousin be after what she's done," Elizabeth spat. "My affairs with Mary do not concern you."

"Yes, they do," said Francis coolly, "especially if her safety and that of our son is involved. Leave my wife in peace and I give you my word that England will benefit." His temper was boiling beneath the surface, and it was all he could do not to scream at her. Any threat to Mary was a threat to him, and he would do all he could to protect her.

The Tudor queen laughed. "_You think negotiating with me is going to help out my dear cousin_?" she scoffed. "Oh, Francis, you truly are a green boy. Mary wants my crown, and she shall have it…_upon her head on a pike_."

"Hurt Mary and I swear to God, I'll –"

"You'll what?" snapped Elizabeth. "Besiege Windsor Castle with the Spanish fighting behind you? You and I both know that you can't win, even with King Philip's warships. I will crush France, and after that, _I am going to destroy Mary_. And who knows? Perhaps after the babe is born, I'll hire an assassin to finish him off. I won't have my cousin on my throne, and I have no problem shedding blood to make sure of it."

"_Even the blood of an innocent babe_?" Francis couldn't mask his horror. "How do you know about my proposed alliance with the Spanish, Elizabeth?"

"I have spies in French court, Francis. I am not oblivious to what happens in France. How else would I know that my coz is slowly growing pot-bellied with your child? There is not one thing that happens in court that I am not unaware of. Of course, I also have my little birds nesting here as well. I have my eyes and ears everywhere. That is how I know the Habsburg king has agreed to your cute little alliance." She smiled coldly. "I will always be one step ahead of my enemies. Always." She poured herself a flagon of wine, and Francis felt a sudden surge of hatred for the woman. "I will say, Francis, I admire your nerve to confront me about my dear coz, but that was your first mistake."

"Oh, was it?" he challenged her.

"Yes, it was," Elizabeth purred. "You see, a queen could always use some leverage to hold above her enemies. And I have my own guards – bought, paid for, and bribed – posted right outside the doors. Their allegiance is to me, and only to me." She sipped her wine. "I know my coz holds you close to her heart, Francis, which makes you my ideal choice. _GUARDS! GRAB HIM!" _Francis barely had time to react as the guards burst into the room. They grabbed him, shoving a scarf into his mouth and pulling a hood over his head. He struggled, but they were stronger, much stronger. Their grip was like death, and their nails were digging into his flesh. "I could very easily take you as my hostage to hold over my coz, but will I? No. The power is mine, but I'm not going to waste my time with you… Do you hear that?"

It was muffled through the walls, but it was resonating throughout the castle. A profound chant: "HAIL HER MAJESTY QUEEN MARY, THE TRUE QUEEN OF ENGLAND! HAIL HER MAJESTY QUEEN MARY, THE TRUE QUEEN OF ENGLAND!" A knot formed in Francis's stomach. _No, Mary… _

"Let him go," Elizabeth ordered, and he was thrown to the ground. He heard the doors close as he pulled off the hood and hurriedly untied the gag, scarcely aware that he was shaking. _Mary and I have both underestimated her, and now Mary has reasserted her right to the throne. God save us all._

* * *

"HAIL HER MAJESTY QUEEN MARY, THE TRUE QUEEN OF ENGLAND!" The chant reverberated all throughout the castle until it was all that was to hear, and Mary found that she was overwhelmed by it all. _My people have waited a long time for me to arise, _she thought, _and my ascension has put me and Elizabeth on a collision course for the throne. _It seemed an eternity passed, and the doors swung open, unveiling Elizabeth. Her face was stone, but Mary could sense the anger underneath. The entire hall fell silent as her cousin approached the throne.

"Coz," said Elizabeth formally. "I wish you the best of luck."

"In what?" It was all she could do to keep her tone even, to keep it from betraying her alarm. The people were watching her; she was a queen, not a girl. "I do not understand what you mean."

"Your pregnancy and all that will follow, Mary. You're my dearest cousin. I wouldn't want ill fortune to befall you," her cousin said sweetly. "You know how it goes with queens who are with child. I cannot tell you how many have either miscarried their babes or assassins have stolen into the night with daggers, stabbing them in the womb and watching them bleed out. It never matters to the hired knives if the queen survives, only if the babe dies."

"What are you saying?" Mary forced the words out through clenched teeth. She wanted nothing more than to rake her nails down Elizabeth's face for threatening her son. "Did you just threaten me? Did you just threaten my child?"

"No, I would never do such a thing, coz, but you would do well to take my words to heart." There was a poisonous sugariness in her voice, and the tension in the room was so strong that she could see it in the air. Elizabeth turned on her heel and made her leave, the people erupting into hushed whispers.

"LEAVE," Mary roared. The people immediately scrambled out of the room, and she pushed her way through the crowd. She had to find Francis. He was the only one she could turn to. "Francis! Francis!" she shouted. "FRANCIS!" She managed to escape the mass, stumbling out into the halls. "FRANCIS!"

"Mary!" Mary whipped her head around to see Francis rushing to her. Relief flooded through her as she ran to him, and he folded her in his embrace. She clung to him, tightening her embrace, and it wasn't until then that she could feel the unevenness of his breath, the tremor in his body.

"Francis, you're shaking," she said quietly, and they finally pulled apart. "What's wrong? What happened? Where were you this morning?" She hadn't seen Francis this upset since Bash's passing, and it worried her.

"I was with Elizabeth," her husband answered. "I thought that maybe I could blackmail her into stepping down from this war of the throne, but…" He shook his head furiously "She threatened to kill you and send a hired knife to butcher our son once he is born. All I want is to protect you – protect our family – but how am I supposed to do that, Mary? How am I supposed to protect this family when you have already reaffirmed your claim to England? – _and you told me that you wouldn't do so until after James is born_!"

"Francis…"

"What is wrong with you, Mary?" he demanded. "Why did you go against your word? Do you realize what you've done? Do you realize the danger you've put yourself in? _Elizabeth will kill you for this._"

"Not if I kill her first," said Mary bluntly. "This is my life. My decision. _My risk._ I know you're scared –"

"You must be mad to think you can beat Elizabeth at her own game! She is mad, utterly mad. Not like my father, but if you misstep once, it'll be your head on a pike. She told me so herself."

Now it was Mary's turn to be angry. "_What the hell were you thinking, confronting her_?" she snapped. "You know how dangerous she is!"

"As do you, and you've made yourself her enemy! I can't believe you would do this, Mary. I can't protect you from her, and you've made yourself vulnerable to her!"

"Francis, it doesn't matter what I do," Mary began, "Elizabeth will always see me as her enemy. The only reason our countries are still friends is because we are each other's only chance of saving our respective nations, but we will always be locked in this war for the Crown. You can't protect me from this, husband." Softening her tone, she reached for him, gently stroking his cheek with her thumb. "I love you, but you must let me be the queen I was born to be."

"I'm not going to let you get yourself killed for the throne, Mary. _I won't_. I would bring down the Tudor dynasty if it meant saving you."

"I will not be the one to die. Elizabeth will."

* * *

When it was time for Mary and Francis to part ways, it felt as though the lovers were saying their final farewells to each other. They stood on the docks, the ship looming on the harbor as it awaited Francis to embark.

"I wish I could stay here and protect you," said Francis softly, "and be with you when you bring our child into the world."

"I know." Mary wrapped her arms around him, her heart aching in her chest. She wanted nothing more than stay with her husband, but there as too much separating them. _Our duties to our countries will always be in our way, _she thought forlornly, _and the only way Francis will be safe from my cousin is if he returns to France. _"I just want it all to be over, this war between our countries and mine own with Elizabeth. The things we do for our countries…" Her husband silenced her with a deep kiss, his hands fisting in her hair. His kiss consumed her, leaving her breathless. His kiss was raw passion, everything he couldn't say. Francis kissed her cheek and neck before crushing his lips to hers again. Mary held on to her husband, and he to her, neither of them willing to let go of the other.

"I love you," she said breathlessly. "God, I love you so much, Francis husband."

"As I love you, Mary wife," Francis murmured, gently running his knuckle down her cheek. "You have forever enraptured my heart. There has never been another. Only you." Overwhelmed, Mary kissed him again, and it took all of her willpower for her to part their kiss.

"Have a safe journey home. Take care of my heart…I've left it with you." Mary felt tears slipping from her eyes, and her husband tenderly wiped them away with his thumb. She could see the struggle that raged within him; he was unable to stay, unwilling to go, but going nonetheless. The fates conspired to keep them apart, just as they willed her to condemn her mother to death. Francis's fingers interlaced with hers, and he offered her a sad smile before releasing her hand and boarding the ship.

"I love you, Francis," she whispered. As she watched the ship grow smaller and smaller in the difference, she felt as though a piece of her was missing. _We will be together again soon, _she told herself.

* * *

When his mother gave him the parchment, Francis did not need to read it to know what it said, but he opened it nonetheless. Written were only two sentences in King Philip's own script: _It's done. Spain will fight with France against England. _


	15. Chapter Fifteen: Battle of the Louvre

Five months passed without any word from Francis, and it worried Mary. She had no little birds to report back to her of the happenings in French court, and Elizabeth was growing ever restless. Mary's belly was swollen; the midwife had said that it was only a matter of time before she went into labor, advising that she rest until the time came.

_I am a queen, not an ill patient, _she thought to herself as she began to make her way to her Privy Council chambers. _James will be born any day now, and I am at my most vulnerable to any dangers that should befall me and my son. I have to trust my brother, if no one else. _She opened the door, and was surprised to find Moray alone, reclining on the couch. It wasn't until she entered the room that she saw that he indeed was not alone, for a naked whore straddled him, slowly rocking her hips against him. She cleared her throat, and Moray and his whore jumped, startled out of their spell of lust.

"Your Grace!" She hastily covered herself with a blanket, but Mary did not avert her gaze, for she was a queen and not a shy, blushing maid. "I-I'm sorry for presenting myself in such a state of immodesty." She dipped into a clumsy curtsy.

"Can you please excuse me and my brother? I need to speak with him. Alone." Mary's hand fell upon her protruding belly; James was restless inside her, kicking and squirming. His mistress left the room, and it was then that Moray finally spoke.

"What do you need, Mary?" he asked. "What is it? Can you not let a man indulge in pleasure in peace?" There was an edge to his voice, and she knew it wasn't because she had interrupted his pleasures.

"I need you to take my son to France after he is born," she told him. "He is not safe here with Elizabeth, and he cannot stay with me. He'll be safer with his father, with Francis. I'll return to France after the war –"

"And which war would that be, sister?" Moray snapped. "This War of the Four Kingdoms, or your war with Elizabeth for the Crown?"

"Will you help me protect my son or not? Answer the question!" Mary's temper sparked. "I am your sister and your queen, James. As your sister, I am asking for your help."

"And as my queen? Are you commanding me?" Moray scowled at her. "I serve my queen – the true queen." For a brief moment, she thought that he might hit her, he was so angry. _What does my cousin have over him that has changed his allegiance? Or has he fallen under her spell? _

"Elizabeth." It wasn't a question. "Why do you serve her now? And how do I know if I can trust you anymore? How do I know if I can trust you with my child?" _You can't betray me, brother, you of all people. I condemned my own mother to die for her crimes. _

"I have my reasons, sweet sister, none of which concern you," he said frigidly. "I will help you protect your son, for you are my sister. It would be wrong of me to turn my back on you when you need me the most. I am not a man who sheds the blood of innocent babes."

_Perhaps not, but my cousin would not hesitate to butcher my son just to weaken my claim to the English throne. _"Come for me after the birth," she told him. "I'll tell you what to do then." Moray nodded before storming out of the room. Mary watched him as he left, doubts plaguing her. She was certain that he could be trusted; he was her brother, was he not? He was still devoted to Scotland, and regardless of whatever Elizabeth held over him, he would still her brother. He would help her protect her son, as a brother helping his sister, but not as a man loyal to his queen.

_He is the only one here at court that I can trust now that my husband is gone, _she thought grimly. _I wouldn't bear it if he dared betray me. _

* * *

Mary swept to Elizabeth's privy chambers, pushing the door open. "Elizabeth, coz," she said. "I must speak with you." Her cousin didn't look back towards her as she looked out the window, a flagon of wine in hand.

"Voice your troubles and be done with it, Mary," Elizabeth said coldly. "By all rights, I should be in England with my people."

"What keeps you here in Scottish court?" Mary asked, hurling the words at her, but she knew the answer before it was given.

"You." The Tudor queen slowly turned to her, sipping her wine. "Our countries remain friends, but you and I…we are not. Not since you declared yourself for my throne. You see, cousin, while you have been desperately trying to shield your Valois kin from me, I have been doing some planning of my own. Plans for this War of the Four Kingdoms, now that the Valois king has Philip of Habsburg fighting behind him."

"What sort of plans, Elizabeth?"

"I have sent our men out to war," she began coolly. "The Scots and the English are numbered in thousands upon thousands, with the men I bequeathed to you. I realize that you and I have had our differences, but the one thing that has kept me from destroying Scotland is knowing that whatever happens to Scotland will also befall England. I've had every reason to carry out my threats to you, especially since you are heavy with child. Your child threatens my claim to the Crown, but he is not why I brought you here."

"You just told me that you sent our men to war. Speak plainly to me."

"We are attacking France, my dear coz, and there is nothing you can do to prevent the attack. It is already done. Our men are on their way even as we speak." Elizabeth spoke her words matter-of-factly as she poured herself more wine. A violent, sudden rage exploded within Mary as she advanced towards her cousin. Her palm lashed out, striking Elizabeth across the face with as much force as she could muster.

Elizabeth's glare was like death itself. Without speaking another word, she struck Mary across the mouth before forcefully shoving her to the ground. Mary cried out in pain, for she landed on her swollen belly, a sharp agony cutting through her body like knives. "Don't ever presume to raise a hand to me again, Mary," she spat.

"The baby!" Mary gasped. "He's coming...my baby is coming! _HE'S COMING!" _

* * *

_HarooOOOOOOOOO. _Francis heard the war horn sound before he saw them. The drums were beating in a steady rhythm, sounding of their coming. _The Scots and the English, _he realized. _Mary must have agreed to the siege after all, for whatever reasons she may have had. _He shook his head. He couldn't think of Mary now. The Louvre was under attack; _France _was under attack. Protecting the castle was his priority.

"THE ENGLISH ARE HERE. THE ENGLISH ARE HERE!" he shouted. "_Blow the war horn! Get the women and children to safety!_" The French and Spanish forces were posted all about the castle, while a few hundred of the Spanish were out at sea on their warships to battle Elizabeth's fleet. Francis was confident the Spanish Armada would grant a French victory. Philip had often boasted in his letters that his fleet was the strongest and most impregnable of all warships, and he had no reason to doubt the Habsburg king. He had bequeathed to him not only a dozen warships, but thousands upon thousands of men.

_HaroOOOOOOOOOOO. _The song of the French war horn pierced the air in answer to the English and the Scots. Francis hurried out to the castle walls, and his blood turned into ice in his veins. In the black of the night, all he could see were flames in the distance, echoes of ruin. The Scots and English had swept across the country, plundered through the villages, leaving nothing but devastation and chaos in their wake. _And the Louvre is next. I won't let them take the castle. I will not let Elizabeth make France part of her empire. _He could hear the chanting of the English army in the distance, and for a moment, he thought he saw the silhouettes of catapults. His heart dropped in his stomach, but he quickly banished his fear from his mind. He was the king of France, and he would lead his men and the Spanish to battle.

"THIS NIGHT, WE ARE FACED WITH THE ENEMY!" he roared. "BUT THEY WILL NOT PASS THROUGH THE CASTLE WALLS. NOT WHILE WE STAND. TONIGHT, OUR ENEMIES WILL KNOW DEFEAT. THEY WILL KNOW WHAT IT MEANS TO FIGHT US. THEY WILL FEEL OUR WRATH, AND WET THEMSELVES WITH BLOOD. HISTORY WILL BE WRITTEN THIS NIGHT, AND LET IT BE KNOWN THAT FRANCE DID NOT FALL, BUT INSTEAD, RISE VICTORIOUS!" He raised his hand in the air. "ARCHERS. DRAW, AIM...HOLD YOUR FIRE." _It will not do to strike first, not yet. Let them come to you, and then rain down fire on them. _It was then that all hell broke loose. There was a collective shout, and the next thing Francis knew, a giant boulder was flung from the dark of the night.

"LOOSE!" was all he could say before flinging himself to the ground in an attempt to avoid the debris that now rained down upon him and his men. He risked a glance, and he watched in horror as parts of the castle crumbled. The dying screams of those who were crushed beneath the debris rang in Francis's ears, and he lunged to his feet. "DRAW. AIM. LOOSE!" Flaming arrows rained down upon the English and Scottish army as they tried to run for the gates. Many a men fell, and Francis shouted at his men to continue firing upon them. "DRAW. AIM. LOOSE!" he screamed. "DO NOT LET THEM BREACH THE CASTLE WALLS, WHATEVER YOU DO! CUT THEM DOWN. _CUT THEM ALL DOWN!" _There was no time to say more as another boulder catapulted from the darkness. The English forces were drawing closer; Francis could see them throwing siege ladders up to the castle, and boulder after boulder was flung at the castle.

People were screaming, dying and fighting all around him. He nocked an arrow and fired at the enemy. Draw, aim, loose. Draw, aim, loose. Draw, aim, loose. Over and over again. _You will not get into the castle, _he swore, _not whilst I and my men still breathe. _He was just about to nock another arrow when another boulder shot from the black of the night, and the world exploded.

* * *

Screams and shouts and sobs surrounded him. His ears were ringing from the explosion, and his head was pounding. Slowly, Francis rose to his feet, unsheathing his sword from its scabbard as he took in his surroundings. The Louvre was in ruins; one glance upwards told him that he'd fallen through the ceiling when the boulder had hit. Several areas of the castle were destroyed, making it easier for the English and Scots to breach the walls.

_The boulder must have been laced with explosives, _he thought darkly. He could see more and more siege ladders being thrust upon the castle, as the English and Scots overrode his men with ease. Everywhere he looked, there was death. He could hear the screams of dying men as they begged for mercy, the sobs of women and children as the English slaughtered them, and the song of the war horn as it rang out one last time. A sudden bloodlust overcame Francis, a murderous rage pumping through his veins. In his peripheral vision, a group of Scottish soldiers were brutalizing a child while the mother lay dead, her clothes in tatters and her face beyond recognition. Francis let out a furious roar as he charged towards them, swinging his sword and in a swift, single stroke, the heads of the soldiers fell and their headless bodies collapsed to the ground in a pool of blood. He was scarcely aware of the blood that had splattered onto his face and armor. The young child looked up at him, their face white with fear and shock, and without a word, scrambled to her feet and bolted.

Francis could scarcely see through his bloodlust as he threw himself into the heart of the battle. Time became meaningless as swords sang and shields clashed in the ever familiar dance of steel. Protecting the castle was the only thing that mattered. In his heart, he knew that France was lost. The battle was lost. There was a sudden explosion in the distance; one spare glance told him that Philip's fleet was destroyed. The ships were aflame and sinking into the depths, men screaming and sobbing as they died. The English fleet was still afloat, the small ships sailing past the remains of the Spanish warships to the castle. _It's over. _France belonged to England.


	16. Chapter Sixteen: Here Come the Vultures

"HE'S COMING!" Mary screamed. "_HE'S COMING!" _She writhed on the floor in agony, as Elizabeth merely watched aloofly, sipping her wine.

"The midwives are on their way, coz," Elizabeth reminded her calmly. "Just have patience." There was a distant coldness in her voice, almost as if she took pleasure in her pain. "Who knows? You may just birth the next king of France right before my eyes. I only wish you would die in your birthing bed, so my rights to the Crown will go unchallenged by the likes of you." She let out a sigh. "Now, I find myself regretting not carrying through with my threats to you all of these months. Will you birth a son, who will only strengthen your claim to my throne? Or will you birth a daughter, who will have no rights to any kingdoms or thrones? I suppose that is in God's hands." Mary gritted her teeth as she struggled to rise. She would not let her cousin cow her and threaten her child. With tremendous effort, she rose to her feet, but had to lean on the desk for support.

"I will have a son, Elizabeth," she gasped through the pain. "A king, a true king of Valois and Stuart, and he will reign after Francis. _You will never win._" She was unable to say more, for the midwives had burst in the room.

"Take my cousin out of my chambers," Elizabeth ordered.

"Yes, Your Majesty." Mary gladly accepted the midwives' help as they led her out of Elizabeth's privy chambers. She loathed her weakness, knowing there was naught that could be done about it until her child, her James, was born. The midwives murmured words of comfort to distract her from the pain, but she scarcely heard them. She was sobbing and screaming in her throes, and by the time they reached her own chambers, she was almost blinded from the immeasurable agony. Relief swept through her when she finally fell back upon her bed, clutching one of the midwives' hands.

"FRANCIS!" she heard herself scream. "FRANCIS! _FRANCIS!_" Tears streaked down her cheeks relentlessly, and she let out another wail of pain.

"Your husband is not here at court, Your Majesty. Your Majesty, you need to push now with all of your strength. Can you do that?" Mary nodded furiously, beads of sweat building from her forehead. More than anything, she wished that Francis could be here with her as she brought their child into the world. She didn't want to be alone, surrounded by enemies, as she birthed the heir to the Valois line. She was vulnerable, and her son would be susceptible to the danger that surrounded him.

"PUSH!" And Mary pushed with all of the power in her body, clutching the sheets in her efforts. "You're doing great, Your Majesty, PUSH!" It seemed an eternity passed, an eternity of blood and sweat and tears, before Mary heard it. The cry of a babe. Joy came over her, and when the midwife placed the child in her arms, she began to weep in ecstasy.

"You have a son, Your Majesty," the midwife informed her. "The future king of France." Mary smiled as she cradled her son in her arms, tears blurring her vision. "What shall you name him?"

"James," she said. "James de Valois. Send for my brother, the Earl of Moray. I want him to meet his nephew...and I have something to ask of him." The midwife scurried off, leaving Mary with James. She would cherish every moment spent with her son; once Moray brought him to Francis, she would not be with him for a very long time, as much as it broke her heart. Scotland needed her, and she did not intend to return to France until after the war was ended. The people hated her for breaking the Auld Alliance, so much that one of them attempted to poison her. It was not safe in France, nor was it safe in Scotland as long as Elizabeth was at court. It would put her mind at ease, knowing that her son, her precious son and heir, would be safe with his father. She prayed that the siege of France had ended, for the sake of her husband and their son.

_Francis. _The thought was a punch to the gut. Was he okay? Had he survived the assault? Was he alive? Would they ever see each other again? Mary had to blink back tears at the mere possibility that Francis hadn't survived the fighting. _My husband cannot be dead, _she thought passionately. _I won't allow it. _If he was dead, Mary did not intend to live out her days without him. It was a morbid thought, she knew, but it remained true all the same.

"Mary, sister." Startled from her thoughts, Mary looked up to see Moray as he drew towards her. He sat on her bedside, offering her a warm smile. "Word has it that you have a little prince."

"Yes," she answered softly. "A prince. A prince of three kingdoms to be under his reign when he comes of age to become king. He truly is his father's son, James. He has Francis's eyes."

"Has he a name yet?" Moray pressed her.

"James – for you. James Sebastian de Valois." Mary chuckled. "I had lost hope that I would ever bear a living child, but God granted me my son. He granted me my miracle…which is why it breaks my heart to ask this of you. Bring James to his father. Francis is a good man and a good husband; he will protect our son until I return to France. I don't know what Elizabeth is holding over you, but…I trust you with my child. My babe, my son. You're my brother. I know you would never do anything to hurt me or my little prince." Gently, she shifted her arms and Moray took James from her. "When you see Francis, tell him that I love him."

Wordlessly, Moray rose from her bedside, her son wrapped in his arms. He gave her the slightest and smallest of nods, before closing the door behind him, leaving Mary alone in her empty, desolate chambers.

* * *

Despair threatened to consume as Francis watched the English fleet advance towards the castle. It was over. The battle was done, and no, the Louvre belonged to the English. _France _was a part of Elizabeth's empire. He collapsed to his knees in anguish, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. France had fallen, and he knew that he would have to bend his knee to Elizabeth if he was to avoid all-our war between France and England. The war between France and Scotland still yet raged, and he could not let France become entangled in Mary and Elizabeth's war for the throne. It was only a matter of time before Scotland and England turned on one another. He did not intend on dragging his country into their battle. The fleet reached port, and the English men disembarked, making their way to the castle. It took all of Francis's willpower to rise to his feet.

"Lower your weapons," he ordered his soldiers. "I will handle Elizabeth's envoy, and whatever will come to pass." Reluctantly, his men did as they were bid. The commander of the English fleet caught his eye as he led his troops to the castle gates. Francis felt his nails digging into his palms as warm blood seeped between his fingers. His hopelessness turned to anger, and anger to rage. His vision turned to red, and it took all of his self-control not to order his men to open fire on the English troops. _Do not act recklessly, _he told himself. _You are the king of France. Your decisions will determine whether or not England chooses to destroy the nation, or leave it untouched. _He held back a snort at the thought. The English and Scottish forces had swept through France, destroying all in their path. Countless innocents – men, women, children, even babes at the breast – mercilessly slaughtered. He had all the reasons in the world to shed English blood, but at what cost? _The lives of my people and my house overthrown. _

"We come at the behest of Queen Elizabeth of the House of Tudor," said the English commander. He drew a piece of parchment, giving it to Francis. "I carry what she wills, written in her hand." Francis snatched the scroll from the commander and unrolled it before he read aloud.

_It is fruitless to continue to fight against my country. Swear France's allegiance to England, and I will give you my word as the Queen of England that no more French blood will be spilt. Mary has birthed your son, so I would advise you to make the right decision, for her sake and that of your new son. _

_Elizabeth R. _

Could it be? Was his son truly free from Mary's womb, or was Elizabeth trying to manipulate him? _Elizabeth is as cunning as she is ruthless, but she isn't a liar. _It was a choice between his desires for vengeance or doing what was right for France, and one wrong move would cost him everything. It would cost him his country, his throne, even his wife and son.

"I have no other choice but to surrender," he said solemnly. "Consider it done." His men erupted into hushed whispers behind him, but he ignored them. No more blood – French or English – would be spilled. "Tell the Tudor queen that if she does anything to break her oath – if she tries to hurt my wife and my son – that her peace, just like the blood of her men who fought for her this night, will cover all of English soil."

Elizabeth's envoy nodded. "We do not intend to kill any more French. Queen Elizabeth has always believed in the joining of England and France. It is better like this, Your Majesty King Francis. 'A new age dawns,' she says. 'The age in which the four kingdoms of France, Scotland, England and Spain come together to form a greater empire from the ashes of war.'"

_She wants to become the most powerful woman in Europe, _Francis realized. He could no nothing but watch as the English stormed the Louvre, and once again, his world fell into chaos and despair.

* * *

War bred war as the days passed. The Louvre was completely overrun by English, and it became more than clear to Francis that his power as king meant nothing. Chaos reigned, and the spark of hope had not yet been extinguished. To rebel against England would mean war; to simply surrender would simply bequeath France to England. The people were terrified of the English dominion, but Francis could do nothing for them. The castle was in ruins, and even now, it smelled of dust and death and despair. He could only hope that Mary and their son were faring well in Scotland. Mary was fighting her war for the Crown against Elizabeth, he knew, and the conflict was no less deadly than the War of the Four Kingdoms. Blood would be shed sooner or later, and he could only pray that in the end, it would not be Mary's blood that would be spilled.

It was that day when it happened. Francis was pacing in what used to be his and Mary's apartments, his worry threatening to overwhelm him. He hated how he had no other choice but to submit to Elizabeth and her forces, but there was naught else that could be done that would guarantee the safety of his people. Thousands upon thousands were dead already from the Battle of the Louvre and the siege of France. He would not let anyone else die for him or his country. _I would willingly give my life for France if it came to it, _he thought resolutely. _God be damned, I won't let Mary and Elizabeth drag my country into their war for the throne. _

"Your Majesty?" Startled out of his thoughts, Francis whirled around to see his page standing at the door, a bundle wrapped in his arms. "I found a newborn babe…I think this is your son."

"My…son?" he stammered. "How is that possible? I thought he was with Mary in Scotland."

"No. He is here, with a note from the Earl of Moray." Intrigued, Francis approached and his page gently placed the babe – his son – in his arms. "I'll leave you two alone." Francis didn't notice the absence of his page as he cradled his son in his arms. His son, his James, was sleeping serenely. Small he was and fragile and beautiful. Several moments passed, and it was only then that he sensed that something wasn't right. Not once had James stirred or woken. Gently, Francis touched his son's cheek, his chest tightening.

"Come on, little James," he cooed. "Open your eyes. Papa's here." No response. He waited, and James did not stir nor open his eyes. Horror rose within Francis as the truth dawned upon him. He heard a piercing scream of horror and grief, and he realized that it'd come from himself. His vision blurred and his breathing hitched. He brought a hand to his mouth to stifle another scream. The doors suddenly swung open, revealing his mother.

"Francis. What is it? What's wrong?" She rushed towards him, concern marking her features. It was only when she looked down and saw James, lying still and unmoving, in his arms that she finally realized. "God save the man who did this," she avowed. "Those who murder innocent babes will burn in hellfire." Gently, she took his son from his arms. Francis barely heard her over the pounding of his heart and overwhelming shock as she called for one of the guards to take him away. It seemed an eternity passed before he realized what she'd ordered and he shouted, "_No_! _No! Please, don't! Don't! He's my son, my only son, please!" _

The guard swept into the room, wordlessly picking up the lifeless babe, and leaving just as quickly as he'd came. Francis turned his back to his mother as he fought to compose himself, but it was a losing fight. _My son is dead. My child. Murdered by Mary's brother, the Earl of Moray. _How could this be? It wasn't supposed to be like this! He and Mary were to be together as king and queen, husband and wife, with their son – not this. Not separated by war and politics, death and duplicity lurking at every turn. Once, they had been just a boy and a girl. How he wished for simpler times! He wanted nothing more than to see his Mary again and to gaze into her soft eyes, to hold her in his arms again and feel her warmth, the tenderness of her touch…but he knew that it could not be, not whilst their countries were at war. It hurt his heart, knowing that Mary was so far away from him while their hearts and souls were so close, so intimate, with one another. A year ago, Mary had once tearfully begged him to make his way back to her. _Come back to me, _she'd wept. _Live through this battle. Don't let England cost me you! _

Hot tears streaked from his eyes at the memory. The tables had turned now, and he could only hope against hope that Mary would come back to him. She was locked in battle with Elizabeth for the throne of England, and there was no telling if she would emerge victorious and be crowned Queen of England or if Elizabeth would politically outmaneuver her, charge her for high treason, and sentence her to die. It was too much for Francis to even fathom; he couldn't bear it. Any of it. His son was dead – murdered by Moray on Elizabeth's orders – France had fallen and was now overpowered by the English, and he and Mary were separated by the war. Ragged sobs overcame Francis, and he felt his mother put her hand on his shoulder consolingly.

"Francis," she said gently. He turned to her but tore his eyes away, ashamed of his weakness. The next thing he knew, he was in his mother's arms. Francis held onto her, desperate for her comfort, burying his face in the crook of her neck as he sobbed. He wept for Mary, for their little son, for France…and for all that had been lost.


End file.
